The Secret Of The Unicorn
by los.kav
Summary: Direct continuation of my Modern!Tintin story The Shooting Star. Now featuring pirates and an exciting fight! Modern!Tintin retelling of the classic Herge adventure. Rating changed for naughty language.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

* * *

The lounge of the pub called _La Bateau Noir _was packed. The horseracing was on the television so most of the rough, weathered seamen that crowded around the bar were focused on that. They cheered on their chosen horses, half of them clutching racing forms in one hand while the others cut out the middle-man and passed money back and forth between themselves. It was a good-natured, noisy sort of din: the rabble of the rabble, as it were. Blue jokes and sarcastic retorts passed back and forth among the men like currency. Most of them were old jokes and well-rehearsed put downs that had been told and re-told a thousand times over a thousand similar nights.

At the back of the pub, sitting at a table facing it all, sat Captain Haddock and his friend, Captain Chester. They were sharing a bottle of whisky. They were sitting side by side, leaning against the back of their booth. Haddock sat with his arms folded against his chest and his legs stretched out under the table; Chester was more serene.

"It's a real shame," Chester was saying sympathetically. "He was a good kid."

Captain Haddock shrugged and looked even more annoyed. "What else could I do?"

"Nothing, I don't think. I mean, it wasn't really safe for him, was it?"

"That's what I said," the Captain said emphatically. "It's too dangerous, letting a little kid like that go running all over the world. Getting into all sorts of trouble."

"As you say."

"Did you know he got shot?" the Captain demanded. Chester shook his head. "It's true! He was minding his own business and he saw a plane in trouble. It came down in a field and when he went over to make sure everyone was ok, they just shot him."

"Never!"

"Honestly! I mean, what sort of life is that for a kid?" the Captain asked.

"That's no life," Chester agreed.

"Indeed not. He's better off where he is now. Isn't he?" he asked, trying not to sound worried and failing miserably.

"Oh aye, deff'nitly. I mean, what harm could come to him in foster care?" Chester asked. "I mean, I know he has a lot of enemies, so he probably couldn't go into _actual_ foster care, so he'd be stuck in that home… and you do hear an awful lot about them kinds of places…"

"Do you?" the Captain asked.

"Oh aye, in the newspapers."

"I've never heard anything about them."

"Och, not in your pathetic rags like _The Daily Reporter,_" Chester scoffed. He drained his whisky and poured himself a new one. "I mean the _real _newspapers, like _The Guardian _or _The Times. _Ones that deal with actual news instead of trashy garbage."

"Fair enough." The Captain couldn't argue with that. Trouble was, he quite liked knowing what Cheryl Cole and Jordan where getting up to, and who was sleeping with who in the various government cabinets, or what the Royals were doing for the weekend. "What did the real newspapers say?"

"Oh, the usual guff. Did y'hear about that thing in Ireland? That's a very Catholic country."

"Not really," the Captain said thoughtfully. "Not any more. I mean, they're very modern these days, the Irish, aren't they?"

"Are they? Did ye no' read the Ryan Report?" Chester asked.

"What's that?" the Captain said blankly.

"It's this horrific report about what goes on in them state-run schools and institutions," Chester said, warming to his gory subject. "They were more like workhouses. The kids were getting beaten and tortured mentally. Some of them were being diddled with an' all. There's stories coming out now, from adults that used to live in those places, about kids being killed and buried in the dead of night."

"Codswallop!"

"No, it's true," Chester insisted. "D'ye not remember that place in Jersey last year? Where they dug up the mass grave in the cellar of that state-run school on the island?"

The Captain paused in the act of picking up his whisky, and stared into space for a second or two. "Y'know, Chester, you're not exactly cheering me up," he said at last.

"Was I supposed to? Sorry, mate. Aye, you did the right thing putting Tintin in one of them places."

The Captain drained his glass and continued to stare in to space.

"I mean," Chester continued, "He might not want to see you, but surely that's his own decision, right?"

"Yeah," the Captain said slowly and thoughtfully.

"You've rung how many times?"

"Every day this week. And every day last week."

"And he still won't talk to you."

"No."

"Because he doesn't want to."

"Obviously."

"I find that strange." Chester topped up his own and the Captain's glass. "He was very fond of that dog."

"Oh yeah," the Captain agreed. "That dog is going mad without Tintin. He just sits and cries all day. I can't shut him up. He's driving everyone in my building nuts."

"I would have thought he'd at least want to see the dog," Chester said.

"Huh. Yes…"

"So when you ring, who answers?"

The Captain blinked. "I dunno. Some guy."

"And does he say that he'll pass the message on to Tintin?"

"Oh. Um… No, actually, not now that you mention it." The Captain rolled his eyes and tried to remember the actual conversations he'd had with the man-on-the-other-end-of-the-phone. "He just says that Tintin doesn't want to see me."

"And you believe that?"

"Well, I am the one that… I mean, I did… y'know, help put him back there." The Captain winced in guilty remembrance. "I sort of thought he might not want to talk to me, because of that."

"Well," Chester said speculatively, "I don't know him as well as you do, but I reckon if he had a choice he'd see that dog of his. And 'cos you're the one looking after the dog, I'd say he'd agree to you bringing the dog down to him."

"Hmm."

"If I were you, I'd go down there myself, anyway, and see if he'll talk to you face to face."

"Y'know, Chester, that's a good idea…"

**x**

Captain Haddock rolled out of bed at about eleven am the next morning. He staggered to the bathroom to release his bladder before letting Snowy the dog out to pee. As usual, the dog went out onto the sidewalk, found a lamppost, and refused to come back into the house. In the end, like he had done every morning for the last two weeks, the Captain ended up outside in his bare feet, picking up the dog and carrying him back inside. He had to carry the dog all the way back upstairs, and could only put him down once the door to the flat was closed. Otherwise, Snowy would try and make a break for it and get back outside.

The Captain wasn't sure what the dog was doing, or planning. It wasn't as though he _went _anywhere once he was outside. He just lay down and cried. It was the same thing he did when he was inside. Still muttering at the dog – who was lying down on the old reclining sofa, whimpering softly – the Captain set about making his breakfast. First of all, he wanted a cup of tea. He pottered around as the kettle boiled, fetching his cup and a teabag, and finally the milk.

He opened the fridge _(wait, what?_ his brain said) and grabbed the milk carton. He shook it _(what did I have to do again?) _to make sure he had enough for at least one cup, and closed the door to the fridge.

There was a note. It was held up by a collection of fridge magnets, and it was quite badly written. The handwriting was large and looped and leaned drunkenly to the right, practically falling off the page.

_Go to Galmaarden, _it said.

"What?" the Captain asked stupidly. He shook his head and continued making his tea, puzzling over the note. On the couch, Snowy's whines increased slightly in volume. "Oh, shut up, you!" The Captain brought his tea over and sat down beside the dog. He idly started to scratch the dog with one hand while sipping his tea.

There was something on the coffee table. He leaned forward and turned his head to the side so he could see it better. It was a train timetable.

Brussels to Galmaarden.

He thought for a second.

"Ooh! Oh thunder!" He jumped up as it hit him like a brick to the face. "I'm going to be late!"

It took less than ten minutes to get ready and another ten to coax Snowy onto his lead. He was in Bruxelles-Central in another fifteen, and shortly after that, still panting and sweating, he was on the train to Galmaarden with the dog perched on his lap and attempting to stick his head out of the window. He was finally able to sit back and relax, and it was only then that he realised he stank of his hangover. Still, there wasn't much he could do about that now, he reasoned. With any luck he'd be able to find a supermarket and buy a can of deodorant. It would have to do.

It only took about forty minutes to get to Galmaarden proper. It was a pretty little town, with old buildings and a distinctly country feel to it. There were lots of fields. In fact, it wasn't surprising that someone like Tintin would run away from a town like this. It was mean to say it was a one horse town, because already the Captain had seen two horses. There hadn't been enough _space _for two horses, but the effort had been made.

The children's home was just outside the town, a brisk twenty minute walk along an old road that was lined with overgrown grass verges. The road itself was badly in need of being repaved, with potholes big enough to lose Snowy in, but it was at least straight and easy to follow. And the sign for the Home was discrete, but easy to read, and written in French and Dutch. This far away from the civilisation that was Brussels, English wasn't an option.

There wasn't a long drive, and the Home looked fairly new. It was well-kept from the outside, with the windows and doors freshly painted, and the flowerbeds in front of it were well-tended and neat. Nothing was in flower because of how late in the year it was, but a few neatly trimmed bushes were still growing. The wall was low and standing on the road, the Captain could see over it and into the yard. The gate was opened.

He walked up to the door and knocked. He tried the door handle half-heartedly, but it was locked so he stepped back to wait. The door opened shortly after, with a loud noise as the key was turned in the lock. It didn't creak when it was pulled open, but it was a close call. A small man with a neat haircut and a black shirt under a bright, too-happy jumper looked out nervously. The Captain gave him what he hoped was a winning smile. "'Morning, pal. I'm here to see someone."

The man looked the Captain up and down. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Er, no. But I only need to see them for a few minutes."

"Who do you wish to see?"

"Tintin."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Tintin? That's… I don't think that's allowed."

"It's ok," the Captain said reassuringly. "My name's Captain Haddock. Your Father Pete-y knows me."

"Father Pete-y?"

"Y'know, the guy in charge?"

"Father Piatus?"

"That's the one." The Captain flashed him another smile.

The man still looked uncertain. "I'll have to check with Father Piatus. Please wait here." He closed the door.

The Captain blinked. That wasn't the friendliest reaction he'd gotten, he had to admit. In fact, it was probably one of the coldest reactions he'd ever gotten. He looked down at Snowy. The dog was still on his lead, but he was standing close to the door, his nose pressed against it. Thankfully, he had stopped crying.

Ten minutes passed. Finally, the door opened again. Snowy was almost through it before the Captain tugged the lead and pulled him out. "Sorry about that," he said to the surprised face of Father Piatus. "He's just excited to see Tintin. You know how dogs are."

"I'm afraid I don't," Father Piatus replied, "and I'm afraid he won't be seeing Tintin today. You don't have an appointment, do you?"

"Do I need one?"

"Yes, Captain, you do. I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey. Please phone ahead next time."

"Well, seeing as I've come all this way, can I get an appointment for today?"

"No, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't possibly disturb Tintin at such short notice."

"How come nobody told me I need an appointment all the other times I rang?" the Captain asked suddenly.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but there are rules."

"Then can I make an appointment for tomorrow, now?"

"You must ring tomorrow morning. Good day, Captain." Father Piatus shut the door. The Captain stared at it. At his feet, Snowy went back to pressing his nose against the wood and snuffling.

"What do you smell?" the Captain asked softly. Snowy's tail wagged slowly. "Who do you smell?" The Captain looked around. Something felt wrong. If this was a children's home, where the hell were all the children? It was unnatural for any place filled with kids to be this quiet. It was the Captain's experience that when there was a large number of children and teenagers together in one place, there was usually at least one kid trying to set off fireworks. At _least _one kid_. _

He bent down and quickly snapped the lead off Snowy's collar and knocked on the door again. Once more, the door opened a fraction. It wasn't much, but it was all Snowy needed. The dog slunk inside, his body seemingly becoming boneless as he squeezed in through the limited space. "Do you mind if I get the dog?" the Captain asked cheerfully.

"Hey!" the small man shouted. He opened the door wide and turned to try and stop Snowy. While he was distracted, the Captain just barged straight in.

"Won't be a second, pal!" Ignoring the man's cries of protest, the Captain followed Snowy, who had run past the polished wooden reception desk and into the corridor that lay to the right. To the left he caught a glimpse of a bright room filled with chairs and sofas, a sort of lounge area, but it appeared to be empty.

The corridor to the right was darker: the hard wooden floors and muted wallpaper did nothing to brighten up the long, narrow space, and the only windows were set high up in the walls at either end of the corridor. Snowy was outside a set of double-doors, barking at the top of his insistent little voice. A brass plaque beside the doors declared this to be the chapel.

"Do not open that door!"

The Captain paused and looked around. Father Piatus had appeared in the doorway to a room further along the corridor. He swept down to them, his black cassock billowing around him like the cape of a gothic villain. For some reason, the Captain was struck by the image of Christopher Lee.

"The dog got off the lead," he explained. "I was just getting him."

"Then pick him up and _go," _Father Piatus said. "He is making too much noise."

"Right." The Captain stooped down and picked up the furious dog, who continued barking and trying to squirm out of his arms. "So is Tintin in the chapel then? That's strange: he was never particularly religious."

"To be perfectly honest, Captain, it isn't your business _where _he is." Father Piatus took him by the arm, turned him around, and marched him back to the door. "Please leave, and do not come back."

"Now, hang on," the Captain protested. "His social worker said I could visit him."

"He doesn't want to see you."

"Have you even told him I'm here?" The Captain stopped walking, forcing the other man to stop too. "From what I've seen, he" – he pointed at the nervous little man who was hovering around – "told you I was here. You came to the door and told me to leave. Does Tintin even know I'm here? And do you mean to say he doesn't want to see his own dog?"

"Captain, if you don't leave I shall call the police," Father Piatus snapped. "Please accept that Tintin does not wish to see you at this time. Do not call here, and do _not _arrive unannounced. If Tintin changes his mind, we will call you. Do you understand me?"

"But" –

"But nothing. If you persist in making a nuisance of yourself, I will not hesitate to phone the police. I have a lot of children in my care, and I will not allow anything to upset them or frighten them." He nodded to the small, nervous man, who scurried to get the door open. "Please leave, Captain."

The Captain stepped out into the bright morning sunshine. He looked back in time to see the door close in his face. Unsure of what to do next, he looked down at Snowy, who peered up at him out of sad, worried black eyes. "Now what do we do?" the Captain asked.

Snowy whined plaintively.

**x**

The Captain met Emilie, Tintin's social worker, in the Café au Soleil at 8pm that night. It was dark and a bitter rain sleeted down on the city relentlessly, so they took a table indoors. She looked well, her blonde hair neatly pulled back from her face in a pony tail, and her suit was smart. She looked up from the mountain of folders that were spread out on the table in front of her and smiled when she saw him.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Captain," she said, standing up and extending her hand. He shook it and sat down opposite her.

"Nice to see you," he said quickly. "Did you talk to that Father Piety person?"

She screwed up her face. "Ye-es," she said doubtfully. "To be honest, Captain, there's not a lot I can do. If Tintin doesn't want to see you, then we can't really force him to."

"But that's just what Father Pete says."

"Piatus."

"Right. That guy. Did you actually talk to Tintin?"

"No. I saw him last week though."

"How did he look?"

She shrugged. "Fine, I suppose. He was… subdued."

"Subdued?" the Captain asked worriedly.

"Quiet," she said, correcting herself. "It's to be expected: he's spent a long time living by his own rules. To have to go back to a stricter regime, with a schedule and adults in charge… It must be hard. Imagine moving back in with your mother tomorrow."

The Captain grimaced. "No chance. Even if she was alive… No. Just no." He scratched at his beard. "And did he tell you that he doesn't want to see me?"

She shrugged again. "We didn't talk about you. We talked about him. How he was; how he feels."

"And he doesn't want to see Snowy?"

She cocked her head. "Actually, he did ask when he could see Snowy."

"Snowy was with me today, and they said he still didn't want to see us."

"Hmm."

"That's strange, isn't it?"

"It is…" she faltered and chewed her lip. "But to be honest, Captain, Father Piatus is in charge, and Tintin is being well looked after. There's nothing I can do."

"I just need to talk to him for a few minutes," the Captain pleaded. "Just five minutes. Let him tell me to my face that he wants me to stay away, and I'll stay away. Scout's honour."

"You were in the Scouts?" she asked brightly. "My father used to run our local troupe."

"Er, not in the Scouts, as such," he said. "But I've always been a fan of them. In a general sort of way. So how about it? You call Father Pickle and ask if I can just have five minutes with Tintin…"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Captain, there's nothing I can do."

"But you're his social worker!" he cried. "There must be _something" – _

"There isn't," she insisted. "As long as he's safe in Father Piatus's care, there's no need for me. I just have to do a few check-ups every so often, and that's it. I can't tell Father Piatus how to run the Home. Believe me, Captain, if he wasn't capable of doing it, he wouldn't be allowed to do it. I'm very sorry," she added kindly. "But I'm sure Tintin will come round soon."

The Captain looked at her. He had an ace up his sleeve. He didn't want to use it, though, because he had no idea if it would work. He only had an inkling. But it had come to him earlier, on the train home. He'd asked himself; _What would Tintin do? _And the answer had come to him as clear as day. _Use the media. _

"I noticed none of this got into the papers," he said as casually as he could. Emilie narrowed her eyes, but said nothing so he continued. "When we got back from the Arctic, I mean. There was a lot in the papers about the trip and the meteor and that, but I did notice there was nothing to do with Tintin. In fact, he was hardly mentioned at all."

"So?"

"Well." The Captain paused and tugged his ear nervously. "It seems to me that you lot are trying to keep this very quiet. It's almost like you're embarrassed or something. Maybe about a very young teenager disappearing off on his own, going on wild and dangerous jaunts around the world. Seems to me that if this all gets out, it could be quite embarrassing. People would be asking whether or not the Department of Child Services are doing their job properly. I'd say there might even be a bit of an investigation, to find out how someone as young as Tintin was able to slip off without anyone trying to find him for, what? Two years? Something like that. There could be a lot of people who'd lose their jobs over that. A lot of people high up in the government."

"Maybe," she said cautiously.

"I mean, if it wasn't anyone well-known there wouldn't be any trouble, would there? But Tintin's a national treasure, isn't he? Everyone loves Tintin. Belgium _loves _Tintin. That's the sort of story a newspaper would love to get their hands on, isn't it? The public would sit up and take notice if it was Tintin."

"What are you getting at, Captain?" she asked plainly.

"I'm just saying." He shrugged at her. "I mean, you know he left a notebook behind, right? With a list of names and phone numbers of a few other journalists he worked with every now and again. Acquaintances. Contacts. I'm sure one of them would be willing to write about it. I'm sure they'd be dying to write about it. And the public would want to read about it. There'd probably be a bit of an outcry, wouldn't there?"

The threat hung between them quietly for a few moments. Eventually Emilie narrowed her eyes and gave the Captain the most shrewd look he'd ever seen. "Tell me," she asked, "have you ever thought about adoption?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

* * *

Two weeks later, the Captain and Snowy were back in Galmaarden. This time, they'd driven down in a really ugly, ancient little Renault that was held together by the whim of Fate and quite a lot of rust. The Captain parked outside the Home and got out, letting Snowy run around without his collar and lead on. The dog, tail going crazy, made a run for the front door and stayed there, pressing his nose against it again and waiting for someone to open it. The Captain followed and knocked hard on the door. He was early, but that was ok.

The door opened. It was Father Piatus himself this time, and he looked annoyed. His mouth was pursed, his lips drawn up as though he had been sucking lemons. The Captain grinned at him. "Alright, pal?" he said cheerily. "I've got a bit of good news for you."

"I've heard," Father Piatus replied, "and I must admit it's all a bit… unorthodox. I mean, who in their right minds would allow an unmarried, middle-aged man to adopt a teenage boy?"

"Same kind of people that would let an unmarried, middle-aged man run a house full of teenage boys?" the Captain replied brightly. "I think it's all about the look of the thing: they can't have him running around on his own, without adult supervision, can they? Now, can I come in, or shall we just wait here for Emilie?"

"I wish to register my disproval." Father Piatus stood back and let the Captain and Snowy enter. The dog ran by quickly and paced around the reception, whining loudly. "I don't believe this is in Tintin's best interests."

"Oh yeah?" the Captain said. "So what do you think his best interests are?"

"Education, structure and discipline," Father Piatus replied briskly.

"Well you never know, Father, I might be able to handle all that myself."

"I doubt it. You are a foil, I believe: someone to make the government look good in the face of such an enormous cock-up. He will be your ward, and you his guardian, and he will continue with his ill-advised, dangerous behaviour."

"Hardly: we're going to have Emilie breathing down our necks all the time."

"I shall catch you out, you know," Father Piatus continued. "I shall catch you out as the fraud you are, and have the boy removed from your care."

"And then I'll go to the press and let them know what a bang-up job you're doing here," the Captain replied, losing the last of his good nature. "I'm sure the newspapers would love to know that you're in the habit of losing your children."

"One child," Father Piatus hissed. "And you'll understand soon enough, oh yes! You'll know how hard it is to keep _him_ under control."

"Good, I like a challenge. Oh! Here he is!"

Tintin appeared, like a vision, in the doorway to the corridor. He was carrying a duffel bag and a back-pack was held on one shoulder. He was leaning slightly under its weight. On the floor before him, Snowy stopped dead. His mouth opened slightly, his small body shook in pure excitement, and a large puddle spread out underneath him.

"Sorry 'bout your floor, mate," the Captain said cheerfully, a huge smile threatening to cut his face in two.

Snowy launched himself at Tintin. Tintin dropped his bags at once and held out his arms, and caught the dog in mid-leap. Snowy was making strange, happy noises as he attempted to lick every part of Tintin he could find. "Mmph-mph, mmmph mmmph. Flrg," said Tintin, keeping his mouth firmly closed against the force of Snowy's delighted licking.

"Couldn't have said it better myself, lad," the Captain agreed. Tintin snorted laughter and then regretted it when Snowy put his tongue up his nose. Still laughing, he stepped over the puddle of wee and put Snowy back on the ground. "Now sit," he ordered. Snowy sat down at once, his muscles straining as he fought the urge to run back to his master. Tintin quickly grabbed his bags and tossed them over towards the Captain, who caught the heavier of the two and hefted it up.

"We should probably put these out in the car."

"Are you certain this is ok?" Tintin asked.

"Oh yes." The Captain rolled his eyes. "There was an awful lot of paperwork, but the whole thing was rushed through. They're trying to save face, I think, and the quickest way to get this over with is to get you out of here."

"So I'm definitely leaving here?"

"Yes. As soon as Emilie shows up, I'm pretty sure we can leave."

"Oh, thank heaven for that!" Tintin picked up his duffel bag in one arm and Snowy in the other. The dog quickly clambered back up, his paws resting on Tintin's shoulder, and continued to lick. "Ugh! Not my ear, Snowy! Calm down."

"Yeah, he's not going to calm down anytime soon," the Captain muttered. "By thunder, that dog is annoying."

"Aw, I really missed him. Didn't I, Snowy? Yes! Yes I did! I missed my big man!"

The Captain rolled his eyes. "I hope you don't baby-talk to him all the time."

"Of course not, I just missed him. I wonder if" – Tintin stopped dead and stared at the car. "Is this your car?"

The Captain patted the car on the roof. A small shower of rust snowed down to the ground. "That's her," he said proudly.

"I've changed my mind: I don't want to be adopted by you."

"You cheeky sod! That's a great car!"

"Can it still move? That's an awful lot of rust."

"It's all I could get on short notice."

"Is that… is that a _tape-deck!_ I didn't know cars still came with tape-decks…"

"You kids. You don't even know you've been born. I remember back in the day when a tape-deck was a luxury."

"Dinosaurs came with tape-decks?"

"You cheeky little bas" –

"_Sssh! The social worker's here!" _Tintin hissed.

Emilie's car drove by them slowly as she pulled up to turn into the drive. They waved and smiled at her, and she waved and smiled back. Tintin quickly gave some orders out of the corner of his mouth. "Don't swear in front of her. And don't make any off-colour jokes. And don't start talking about whisky."

"I'm not that stupid," the Captain murmured. "I've been talking to her for the last month, and I've managed not to swear or tell rude jokes. She's very pretty though, isn't she?"

"Isn't she a bit young for you?"

"You never know, son, she might be your new mummy…"

"Captain!" Tintin could help but laugh. "Don't make jokes like that, either."

"Who's joking? Hello, Emilie!"

"Good morning Captain, Tintin. Hello, Snowy." She bent down and patted Snowy on the head quickly.

"Are we ok to go?" the Captain asked.

"Actually, you just need to sign a few more forms," Emilie replied. She patted the large, paper folder she held. "Nothing too serious: just something to say that you picked him up and he was alive and healthy."

"And that's not serious?" The Captain looked at Tintin worriedly. "Are you alive?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Well that's good enough for me."

"I'm sure it is, but Father Piatus needs to sign them too," Emilie said. "Do you want to go back inside and say goodbye to anyone, Tintin?"

"No, thanks." Tintin grinned and tried to get into the passenger seat of the Captain's car. Eventually he managed to open it by placing his foot on the side of the car and tugging furiously on the handle.

"It's a bit stiff," the Captain said as he tried to lead Emilie away. "It'll loosen up once it's a been used a bit more."

"It's, er, it's very old," she said as they stepped into the Home. Tintin shook his head and finally got into the car, tossing his bags onto the small back seat. Trust the Captain to turn up with a car like this.

Snowy settled himself on Tintin's lap, his front paws braced against Tintin's chest as he managed to get himself into a better position for licking. His small black nose snuffled and nuzzled everywhere it could reach, until eventually Tintin was trying to fend the dog off. After about a half an hour, the Captain and Emilie reappeared.

"All done," said the Captain as he got back into the car. "She's going to follow us back to mine, and make sure you get settled in nicely. Careful now."

"I can't thank you enough," Tintin said earnestly, trying to put Snowy into a better position, one where he wasn't squashing Tintin's balls. "You've really gone above and beyond anything I ever expect… _Did you just fart?"_

"Sorry about that," the Captain said brightly as he started the car. "I had a loads of beans for breakfast. Not sure why; I just really fancied 'em."

"Oh, God! That's _foul!" _Tintin desperately tried to crack a window.

"I don't think that side works," the Captain said happily. "By thunder, this should be an interesting drive."

**x**

"So how did you manage it?" Tintin asked.

They were almost in Brussels, just coming off the motorway and heading into the city itself. A fug of beany farts hung like a pall in the interior of the car. The Captain glanced over and shrugged. "I just… made a couple of good points and they soon saw things my way."

"_How?" _Tintin asked. "Honestly, Captain, how did you manage this?"

"Well, once I mentioned going to the papers with it, they sort of caved in and let me have my own way. I mean, it helped that I'd stayed in touch with Emilie, and she offered to vouch for me, but to be honest I just think they didn't want you on your own," the Captain admitted. "I don't think they cared _where _you were, as long as you were with someone. An adult. And like I said, Emilie vouched for me so that's it. I'm now your guardian."

"Thank you, Captain," Tintin said, truly touched. "Honestly, you didn't have to do this."

"Oh, it was no problem," the Captain said shyly. "T'be honest, I wasn't too sure of it myself, but then I remembered how much fun we had on the _Aurora, _and figured why not?"

"Well, don't worry, Captain," Tintin said firmly. "I promise, I won't be a bother."

"Naaah, of course not."

"Obviously, I'll have to stay with you for a while, until Emilie is convinced it's working."

"Eh?"

"But after that, I can move back into Labrador Road. She'll tell us when she's due to visit, and I'll just make sure that I'm at your house for that. It won't interfere with your life at all, honestly."

"What?" The Captain looked over, slightly lost. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, obviously you wouldn't want a teenager around all the time. I think we might be able to pull this off."

"Pull what off?"

"Me still living on my own," Tintin said. "Like I said, if we're clever about this we can pull it off. We just need to make sure that I'm over in your house whenever Emilie comes to check up on us. She might drop in randomly at first, but soon she'll schedule her visits for once a month, and we'll know in advance when they'll take place. All we have to do is make sure that we both keep that day free, and hang around your flat until she's gone."

"Right, of course." The Captain kept his eyes on the road. "Of course. That's, er, that's exactly it."

"That… that _is _it, isn't it?" Tintin asked cautiously, aware of something like disappointment in the Captain's voice.

"Yeah, of course," the Captain said with a snort. "I don't want you cramping my style. Mind you, I might have to put the kibosh on Emilie. Can't bring her home if you're not there."

"I'm going to tell her you fancy her."

"No, you're not. Watch out for the roundabout." They swung quickly on to a small roundabout in the middle of the road. The Captain's arm shot out as he pushed Tintin against the window and circled, dizzyingly, six or seven times. "Enjoying the ride?"

"Captain!" Tintin managed to squeak through his laughter. "Social worker!"

The Captain caught sight of Emilie's puzzled face as her car idled, waiting to join the roundabout. He quickly let go of Tintin and waved merrily to her before turning off and heading towards the city centre. "Whooops!"

Tintin risked looking out the back window. Luckily, Emilie didn't look annoyed, just slightly amused. "By being clever, I meant not doing anything that makes us look like children."

"Could be worse. I could have done this." The Captain reached out and took a hold of Tintin's kneecap and started to squeeze.

"Ah! Aaaah! You've got finger's like iron!" Tintin tried to squirm away.

"That's working on ships for you." Still concentrating on the road, the Captain held his hand up and made a fist. "That's all hard work. I bet I could bruise you just by poking you."

"Don't. _Don't! Captain! Stop!"_

"Sit still, you pansy."

"Argh! No!"

"C'mon, I just want to be your friend. Stop being so defensive. Get _down, _Snowy!"

"Defend me, Snowy!"

Snowy lunged at the Captain. By the time the car had stopped swerving slightly from side to side, the dog was sitting in the Captain's lap, his front paws on the steering wheel and his tongue out as he eyed the road in front of them. "I don't think this is safe," Tintin offered.

"Doesn't matter: we're here now." The Captain pulled into a parking spot and grinned. "Home sweet home."

Tintin looked at the familiar street and couldn't stop his wide smile. "The only problem, Captain," he said calmly, "is that we're at _my _house, not yours. And I'm pretty sure our whole plan hinges on the fact that they think I'm living with you, and not here."

"Oh fu- er, flaming hell!" The Captain smacked himself on the forehead as Emilie's car pulled in behind them. He eyed her in the rearview mirror. "Wait for it," he whispered. "As soon as she gets out, we'll drive off. By the time she catches up, we'll pretend it never happened. Hopefully, she'll just think she's gone mad or something."

Emilie got out and approached their car. Tintin leaned over the Captain and smiled up at her. "We're just stopping here so I can pick up a few things," he lied smoothly.

"Good one," the Captain murmured. "Much better than my plan."

**x**

It felt good to take a proper, hot shower and stay under the foaming spray for as long as he wanted. The only real problem was Snowy. "Look," he said to the dog as kindly as he could, "you're going to have to give me a minute on my own."

Snowy was sitting in the shower, directly under the nozzle, staring up and wagging his tail. His eyes were bright and he was panting slightly. He'd had a fit of excitement shortly after they'd arrived at the Captain's flat, and had to run up and down the stairs a couple of times to work off his excess energy and temporary insanity.

"I understand that you missed me," Tintin continued, "but I have to have a shower, Snowy. You know you don't like water."

Snowy cocked his head to one side and his tail started to move a little faster.

"I'm serious, Snowy. I'm turning the water on. You're going to get soaked."

"Woah!" Snowy barked.

"Ok, have it your own way," Tintin said as he dropped his towel and turned on the shower. He stepped under the hot spray as Snowy darted out of the room, his back and head now slightly wet. He'd dry soon enough, Tintin reasoned, as he climbed back out, shut the door, and finally managed to get back in to enjoy his shower.

And it was glorious.

**x**

The Captain's flat was nice. It was a lot tidier than Tintin had expected and everything had a slightly nautical theme, with lots of paintings of ships and lighthouses and seascapes painted in oil and watercolours. There was a huge collection of model ships too, from tiny curios in glass bottles to a bigger model of an American steamer that took up most of the mantle of the large, open fire in the sitting room.

He'd asked the Captain about the collection, and the man had answered in a bemused way. "Can't help it," he'd said. "You say you work on the ships and everyone makes it their mission to get you something to do with it. Most of these were presents from other people. It's an accidental collection, if you will."

"So you don't actually collect ships?" Tintin had asked, amused.

"No, not really. I mean, I like 'em, and I appreciate 'em, but I don't go out of my way to buy any. I must admit, though, I did buy a few, but only after it was obvious that I had a proper collection."

"I solemnly swear never to buy you a model ship or a painting of one," Tintin had said, holding his hand over his heart.

"You will," the Captain had prophesised. "Everyone does, eventually."

Above the American steamer was what appeared to be a portrait of Captain Haddock in fancy dress. Tintin stared at it. He was sitting cross-legged on the sofa with a cup of steaming coffee in his hands. Snowy was sitting in his lap, curled up and gently snoring, while the Captain pottered about in the kitchen, which was a part of the large sitting room but separated by a long counter lined with tall stools.

"Sir Francis Haddock," the Captain said proudly. Startled, Tintin looked around and saw the man pointing up at the large portrait. "An ancestor of mine," he continued. "There's a really interesting story behind that painting – it's got pirates and explosions and everything, really thrilling."

"I'd like to hear it," Tintin said. He took another sip of his coffee.

"Another time." The Captain waved it away dismissively. "It's a long story. Right." He clapped his hands together once, and Snowy's popped up as the sound startled him back to wakefulness. "I don't feel like cooking. Shall we just get a pizza or something?"

"Pizza sounds great," Tintin said. "Captain, I… Look, I just want to thank you for this. You really didn't need to do anything at all. Just… Thank you."

"Oh, don't worry about it," the Captain said, his face reddening. "I didn't do anything, not really. Emilie did most of it. She's very accommodating. For a social worker, I mean. You don't often hear about nice social workers, do you?"

"Nice people rarely make the news," Tintin pointed out. "They're not interesting enough."

"Fair point." The Captain trailed off before plucking up the courage to raise another subject. "Look, about staying here for two weeks…"

"Honestly, I won't get in the way. I swear."

"No, no! That's not it. I was just thinking, er…"

"You won't even know I'm here," Tintin said solemnly. "I mean, if it's a huge problem then of course I'll go. It's just that I have a feeling Emilie is going to drop in unexpectedly over the next few weeks or so, and it would be a good idea if I was here for that. I don't want her to figure out that I'm not living here."

"Of course. No, you stay for as long as you need."

"Two or three weeks should be fine."

"Right. Of course. Well, I'll go and see about this pizza then, shall I?"

**x**

The pizza place was at the end of the street. It was close and cheap and happened to make tasty pizzas: it was a win/win for everyone, really. The Captain gave his order and went outside to have a quick smoke while the pizzas were being cooked. He leaned against the wall beside the glass doors and thought about it all. He wondered why it was so hard to say it:

Stay. It'll be fun. We get on great and I enjoy your company. You make me feel young, and you make me feel energetic. Everything is an adventure and it's an adventure I want to be a part of.

He'd questioned himself, of course, to make sure it wasn't a sexual thing. But it wasn't: he felt absolutely no sexual attraction to Tintin, much to his undying relief. Tintin was a kid: you never touched kiddies. Even Chester, who was openly gay, had never once thought about a kiddy in an inappropriate way. At least, not to the Captain's knowledge, anyway. But even then all the men Chester had introduced him to – and there had been a lot, over their decades long friendship – had all been in or around the same age as Chester.

No, it wasn't sexual. Captain Haddock hadn't suddenly sprouted gay feelings. He thought he had it figured out though: it was years spent being in charge; being _needed_… suddenly gone. Now he wasn't a ship's captain with a crew of men depending on him. He was a lonely bloke in a foreign country with no real close companionship. Tintin was a kid who would probably benefit from having someone older around to keep an eye on things. He was also a lonely kid. He didn't mix well with others, the Captain had noticed. He'd gotten along with everyone on the _Aurora, _but he'd never gotten _close_ to anyone. Well, no one except the Captain.

So the Captain had finally decided that it was this: Tintin needed someone to keep an eye on him; to be there for him, and the Captain just needed to be _needed. _Mystery solved.

So why was it so hard to articulate this? Why was it so hard to tell Tintin to stay?

_Because it's weird, _a morose little voice said in the back of his brain. _Besides, he clearly doesn't want to stay. Why force him? Why freak him out? Let him go but make sure he knows he can call at any time of the day or night. And then you can take up a safer hobby, like trying to harness lightening with your bare hands. _

"It's a hard old life," he said with a sigh. He put the pipe out, making sure the ashes were gone before slipping it back into his pocket. _The pizzas must be done by now, _he thought to himself. He pushed off the wall with a groan and wandered back inside to fetch them.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is seriously so much fun to write, so I'm going to keep writing it. Expect random updates and expect them often, and don't expect any other stories to be updated until I get this one out of my system. Sorry! But enjoy this, and the four extra chapters that are coming in a minute. :D Enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Three – Monday**

* * *

It was now the end of November, and things were back to normal. Well, for a given definition of 'normal'. The Captain had his flat back to himself – Tintin _thought_ he was pleased about that, but sometimes it was hard to tell with Captain Haddock – and Tintin had finally moved back into his own flat in Labrador Road. It had been good to get back. The Captain had dropped him off two days before, and after he had left and Tintin had unpacked everything, he'd just laid down on the couch with Snowy and enjoyed the quiet. Solitude didn't scare Tintin: he embraced it as an old friend.

Although… It was strange now. Before now, he could wake up and put the radio on or turn on the television and listen to the news as he went about his morning business. He and Snowy had their little routine and it was as familiar as his own hand. Up and into the kitchen to put the kettle on and start the toast. Down to let Snowy out. Grab the post on the way back up. His toast was ready and the kettle was boiled by the time he was back, so they would have breakfast together (Snowy didn't like the crusts, but he loved licking butter off them). The first hour they were up passed quickly and pleasantly, with a minimum of conversation and perhaps a bit of soapy, off-key singing in the shower.

This morning he missed the sounds of the Captain banging about in the kitchen. He missed making a dash for the bathroom before anyone else could get there. He missed trading good-natured insults through the door, regardless of who had won the race to get there first. He found himself wandering around a little, feeling a bit lonely even though Snowy was at his heels, staring up adoringly. He read something amusing in the paper but when he looked up, his mouth already open and the words forming, there was nobody to tell.

For the first time in his life he felt at a loose end. He actually felt… _lonely. _

He pulled out his phone and texted the Captain on the spur of the moment. It took about five minutes to get a reply, and another few minutes to decipher it (the Captain hadn't really got the hang of texting yet, seeing as there was very little mobile phone reception in the middle of the ocean). If he was reading it correctly, the Captain was on his way to Antwerp to meet a friend, and wouldn't be back until later that afternoon.

Tintin put his phone on the table and stared at it. For some reason, he actually felt lonelier now. He vaguely remembered the Captain mentioning the trip a few days before, but it was off-hand and Tintin had been in the middle of doing something and hadn't really been listening. He knew the Captain had to pick something up from a friend, who would only be in town for that day. Now he wondered if the Captain had wanted some company on the drive down and back, and wished he'd offered to go too. As it was, the only plans they had was for the end of the week: Emilie had said she'd ring on Thursday to arrange another visit for had to make sure to keep that day free, so he could pretend he lived in the Captain's flat. She had relaxed her vigilance, and making sure that Tintin was safe was no longer the top priority for the over-worked social worker.

The empty day stretched out ahead of him. For the first time in a long time he had no plans, and now he had nothing to do with himself.

_Well, _he thought, _I could always start my Christmas shopping, I suppose. Get it done now and avoid the crowds. That's sensible._

Sensible, yes. But just not as fun as a long drive with the Captain.

**x**

Belgium was famous throughout Europe for its Christmas markets – huge street markets that sprung up towards the end of November where people came from all over Europe to buy and sell hand-made or regular, trademarked goods that were unique and beautiful. The one in Brussels, the Winter Wonders, was one of the largest. It began every year on November 24th and ran until the first of January, before people went to capitalise on the January sales the rest of the city ran.

Winter Wonders sprawled across the centre of the city, starting at la Grand Place and running for almost two kilometres to Marché aux Poissons. Inside, along with the stalls, there was a huge marquee set up with bands and musicians playing throughout the day; a huge area roped off and filled with snow for sled rides with real huskies and malamutes; the large food court, filled with seasonal delicacies from around the world, stood in front of the massive ice skating rink which in turn was looked down on by the giant Ferris wheel that sparkled over the whole thing like the Christmas star.

Tintin made his way through the crowds, with Snowy at his feet. It wouldn't do to lose the dog in here. Indeed, it wouldn't do to lose himself in here: the place was huge and packed with people. Throughout its time it would be visited by over two and a half million people, most of which seemed to be there that day. The flea market, set off to the side of the hand-made curiosity stalls, and booths filled with expensive looking antiques, looked to be slightly less busier than everywhere else, so Tintin pushed his way through the crowds and headed for there. It was as good a place as any to start and he loved to look at the old books. He'd managed to pick up a first edition of _Dragonlance_ at a Christmas fair in Bruges last year. It took pride of place in his bookcase, set apart slightly from the other Dungeons and Dragons and fantasy books he owned. It had been a great find, and he'd managed to get it for a tenner. It wasn't worth anything much, but it was still something that he loved, and he enjoyed owning it.

He strolled around, looking at the different stalls – some he could barely see through the throng of people around them – and headed further in to find the second-hand books. The crowds cleared a little, but not much. Just enough that he could spot two distinctive people at a small stall near an old carpet seller. They were identically dressed as far as he could see, in matching black suits and bowler hats. He grinned and made his way over to them.

"Hello!" he said brightly.

They turned as one. "Tintin!" they said together. He could see a flash of worry on their almost-identical faces. Remarkably, the Thomspons swore they weren't related, although if they weren't then someone was playing a cosmic joke on the world. They were also, he had found out, the ones responsible for finding the cracks in his story and putting him back in the Children's Home. Their dogged detective work was slow and sometimes painfully ridiculous, but once they got hold of a mystery they refused to let it go until everything was neatly solved and tied up with a big fancy bow.

He had found, to his surprise, that he couldn't fault them for this. He may move quicker but he did exactly the same thing. "Looking for bargains?" he asked brightly, refusing to touch on the subject they were clearly worried about. As far as he was concerned, it was water under the bridge and things had turned out all right. Although back when he was still in the Home he would have dearly loved to have strangled the pair of them.

"A-ha!" Thompson gave a stiff laugh. "Not quite. Er, it's highly confidential." He exchanged a look with his partner and – almost telepathically – they decided it wouldn't hurt to throw the reporter a bone to make up for putting him in the Children's Home. A _safe _bone, however: something that would keep him in Brussels and out of danger. "It's a special operation: pickpockets."

"Oh, I heard about that on the news this morning," Tintin said. "They've been working the Christmas markets all over the country, haven't they?"

"Yes. With the economic downturn they've been getting bolder and bolder," Thomson agreed. "And there's more of them. This sort of place would be like heaven for them."

"Still, at least we managed to find this job-lot of walking sticks," Thompson added proudly. He brandished an armful of similar-looking walking sticks: averagely made from average wood with no frills. Much like the Thompsons themselves. They had been taken from a tall bucket that had a sign attached to the front that read; "€1 each", and the Thompsons had liberated six of them – three each.

"Now to get down to business." Thomson nudged Tintin and gave him a conspiratorial wink before turning to the stall owner, a relaxed-looking older man with a white moustache that Tintin admired greatly. "How much for the lot?" he asked.

The stall owner looked at the Thompsons, looked at the sign on the bucket, and then mentally calculated how many sticks they were holding. He gave them a funny look. "Are you serious?" he asked.

"€6 for the lot," Thomson said quickly.

"€7," said the stall owner promptly, proving that he was a quicker learner than they were.

"See?" said Thomson to Tintin as he rooted for his wallet inside his jacket. "You've got to haggle a bit."

Tintin hid his grin behind his hand and nodded. He didn't have the heart to explain to them what had happened: they looked so proud at their haggling skills. Plus, it was only an extra euro. It wasn't going to break the bank.

Thomson continued to root. He tried one inside pocket, then the other. Then his trouser pockets, until he was frantically patting himself all over. "My wallet's gone!" he eventually exclaimed. "It's been stolen!"

"Oh for crying out loud!" Thompson thrust the walking sticks at him and reached for his own wallet. "Don't be over dramatic. You must have left it at home or something." He continued his own search, finally becoming frantic too. "I don't believe it," he said at last. "Mine's gone too!"

"Now who's being over dramatic?" Thomson said smugly.

"Shut up!"

"Let me pay," Tintin said. He was already feeling better: if the Thompsons could do anything well, it was entertaining him when he felt down. He pulled a €10 note out of his pocket and held it out to the stall owner. "I'm only paying €6, though," he warned.

"Of course," said the man as he took the note, checked it carefully, and made change. "Here, you're Tintin aren't you?"

"Yes." Tintin pushed his change back into his wallet and put it away carefully. "Nice to meet you," he added lamely, because he didn't know what else to say.

"I like reading your stories," the man said. "Very entertaining. You don't half stick it to them, eh?"

"Who?"

"Everyone! Best thing about your stories!" The man broke into a wheezy chuckle and turned away to another customer.

"We'll pay you back," Thomson said quickly.

"Oh, whenever," Tintin said, waving it away. "It's not important."

"It's a matter of principal," Thompson said, drawing himself up importantly. "We always pay our debts."

"Ok, fine."

"But we have to go now. We have to report this straight away."

"Goodbye! Enjoy the rest of your day!" Tintin watched as they marched away, heading back towards the entrance with their walking sticks trailing behind. Tintin turned and strolled on, only to be disturbed a few minutes later by a loud cacophony behind him. He turned and went up on tip-toes, trying to see over the heads of the crowd. There seemed to be something going on. He got a bit closer, but still couldn't see exactly what was happening.

"What's going on?" he wondered aloud.

"Looks like they caught two thieves," a taller man, who was standing close by, replied. "Looks like they caught them red-handed too, trying to steal someone's bag."

"Good for them!" Tintin said. It was over almost as soon as it started, as the security personnel pushed through the angry crowd and apprehended the two thieves. Tintin thought he saw a brief flash of a black bowler hat and a walking stick, and wondered if the Thompsons had accidentally done their job and caught some pickpockets. He shook his head, turned away, and moved on.

Half an hour later he was still wandering, and still hadn't managed to find any book sellers. It didn't matter though: he was having too good of a time. There was just so much to see. As he walked he watched everything around him carefully. Things were laid out everywhere: on tables and fancy dressers and tables of all kinds, and even on the floor. Everything was for sale.

He stopped short. There, on a bright carpet in front of a stall, standing before a gilt-edged mirror that looked very fancy and expensive, was a huge model ship. He edged his way over to it and got down on his hunkers to examine it closely.

It was beautifully made, and it looked _old, _not mass produced. He picked it up and examined it closely, but couldn't see any maker's mark. Most of the ships in the Captain's collection had little stamps or initials on the underside, proving who had made them and when. A handful didn't, because they weren't made by real ship makers but by enthusiastic amateurs with an eye for fine detail. This one looked to be made by someone similar, and the Captain would love it. It would make a perfect Christmas present.

"How much?" he asked the seller, another old man with a pipe that stuck out of his mouth at a perfect 90 degree angle.

"Eh, €20," the man said, casting an eye over the ship. "It's a unique specimen," he continued. "A very old type, er, of galliard."

"No it isn't," Tintin said flatly. "It's not a professionally made ship and it's clearly a three-masted navy vessel." Hanging around in Captain Haddock's house was starting to pay off. "Look," he continued, turning the ship to show the man, "you can see the guns."

"Right. Er, tenner then?"

"A fiver."

"Done."

Tintin grinned and carefully shunted the ship so he could reach his wallet again. He was just balancing everything, trying to take the money out, when someone barged into him and he almost dropped the lot. "Careful!" he snapped.

"How much is that ship?" the newcomer asked. He was short and thin and in possession of a black beard that curled to a sharp point. He was not, it must be stressed, relevant to anything much or related to anyone important, even though his name was later revealed to be Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine.

"Sorry, mate, but it's sold," the stall owner said.

Tintin quickly handed a €5 note over and smiled tersely at the newcomer. "Thank you," he added to the stall owner, who was checking the note carefully.

"Then I'll buy it from you," the stranger said promptly.

"Oh, it's not for sail," Tintin replied. He took a step back and tried to manoeuvre himself away. The ship was bloody heavy.

"I'm a collector," the man explained. "How much did you pay? €5? Then I'll double it."

"No thanks, I'm keeping it."

"How much for the ship?" Another man, tall and chubby and dressed in an impeccable blue suit pushed his way through them to reach the stall. Tintin gritted his teeth and tried to keep a hold of the ship as it shifted, shunted by the man's elbow. He was starting to get annoyed now. Good manners cost nothing. "It's not for sale," he said shortly.

"I'll give you a tenner for it," the man said quickly.

"Fifteen," the first man said, giving the second man a sidelong glance.

"No!" Tintin turned and walked away.

"Hang on!" the stall owner cried. "I got a bunch more crap under the table here! You can argue over that if you like?"

"Twenty," said the second man, upping the stakes again.

"Thirty," the first said promptly.

"Go away!" Tintin cried. He headed through the crowds, picking up his pace and hoping to lose them as he slipped out of the market and back onto the street. A stiff wind was blowing and he shivered as it hit him full in the face. Inside the market there had been so many people that sheer body heat had been enough to make him hot, but once the crowds were clear and the wind was out in force it was turning swiftly in to a decidedly cold day.

"A hundred!" he heard a voice calling behind him. He turned and saw the two men jogging towards him, trying to catch him up. At his feet, Snowy started to growl.

"A hundred and fifty," said the second man, gasping at the exertion. He was a lot chubbier than the first man, and looked unused to exercise.

"Stop!" Tintin barked. "The ship isn't for sale. For your information it's a present for… for my dad." It was only a small lie, he reasoned. "And he's a big guy. _Really _big. You don't want to mess with him, so stop following me!" In a curious case of prophetic fallacy, the clouds darkened and a loud rumble of thunder made the two men look up anxiously at the sky. Also at that moment a tram chose to turn up. Tintin stepped up onto it and, giving the two men a Look, allowed it to sail away from them with him on board.

**x**

Twenty minutes later he was over the other side of the city, far away from his own house and cursing the fact that he hadn't looked where the tram was going first.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I cannot put into words how amazing the Christmas Markets are. Honestly. Also, I kind of think that the Belgian tourism board should pay me to advertise how great Brussels is. It's really great, and writing this made me want to go back again soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

* * *

Tintin spent the rest of the afternoon going over the ship with the edge of a cloth and a couple of q-tips. Once it had been cleaned up and polished, with all the tiny piles of dust removed from awkward corners, it gleamed. It was, really, a beautiful ship, even if it was just a piece of interesting folk art. Everything was daintily made by someone with a steady hand and a practised eye. The only thing was, now it was all cleaned up and nice, he didn't want to wait a few weeks to give it to the Captain. The way he figured it was, he didn't want to give something second hand to the Captain for Christmas. He'd get him something else later, something really good, and give the ship to him now as a thank you for everything the man had done over the last few weeks.

He put it on top of a cabinet in front of the window, where the light could hit it, and examined it critically. "It really is superb," he said at last. He looked down at Snowy, who had stopped examining his paw to look up. "The Captain's going to like it," Tintin said to the dog. Snowy's tail wagged briefly at the sound of the Captain's name. "You like him too, don't you?" Snowy cocked his head and said nothing, because he was a dog and dogs can't speak. But inside his head he was thinking; _Play? We play now? _

"Where's Captain Haddock?" Tintin asked.

Snowy stood up at once and went to the door, his tail wagging. He stared up at it expectantly. After a few seconds he looked over his shoulder suspiciously at Tintin.

"Yes, you like him." Tintin smiled and bent down to play with the dog. For some reason, a reason he couldn't articulate, it seemed important for Snowy to like the Captain. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and let Snowy clamber over him as he texted the Captain to find out when he was coming home from Antwerp. It was evening now, and it was almost fully dark outside. The sky had been overcast for the last hour of daylight though, and he couldn't see any stars. The thin moon drifted lazily behind thick banks of cloud that blended in with the black of the sky. An answering text was deciphered to read that the Captain was home and would come over in a bit, so Tintin busied himself by teasing Snowy with a sock until the dog was almost frantic with excitement.

A knock on the door some time later disturbed them. Tintin went to get up but was tugged off-balance by Snowy, who retrieved the sock and ran off with it. His paws pattered loudly against the wooden floor and Tintin could almost time to perfection the leap of the dog onto his bed, in the bedroom at the end of the short hallway. It was an oft-repeated scene.

He shook his head and opened the door, fully expecting to greet the Captain. Instead, one of the men from the market stood there. It was the smaller, thinner man with the long, glorious beard. "Good evening," he said politely. He held his hat in his hands, nervously running the brim through his fingers. "I do apologise for disturbing you," he said quickly when he saw the look on Tintin's face, "but as I said before, I am a collector of model ships. I would be very grateful if you would agree to sell me yours."

"I've already told you," Tintin said, "I bought it for someone else and" –

"Exactly!" The man brightened up. "I think I have a solution that would suit everyone. You see, I have a lot of fine ships in my collection, made by real artists. Some of them are worth quite a lot of money. I propose that we swap: you pick out another one for your father and I take yours."

Tintin frowned. That made no sense: why swap an expensive ship for a cheap one? "I'm sorry," he said cautiously, "but I don't think so. I'm giving this one to my, er, father, and that's an end to it."

"As you wish," the man said with a sigh. "But look, if you change your mind for any reason – any reason at all – I'll give you my card. It has my address and home phone number on it. Please, please call me if you do want to swap ships."

"I don't think I will, but thanks anyway." Tintin took the card and glanced at the name on it: Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine. The name meant nothing to him however, and had no real bearing on anything else that happened afterwards. He said goodbye to Mr Sakharine and shut the door.

_Crash!_

He jumped and looked around. Snowy was on top of the cabinet looking sheepish, the sock still dangling from his mouth. The other end of the sock, which had been stretched appallingly through heavy use and teasing, was still snagged on part of the ship's rigging. The ship itself was now on the floor, with the mast dragged out of its circular hold and the rigging tangled up hopelessly. "Snowy!" Tintin cried in dismay. Snowy, recognising the tone of voice, dropped the sock and slunk away, jumping down from the cabinet and making his contrite way to his master. His ears were back, his tail was firmly down – although it was making a game effort to wag – and he looked truly sorry for himself.

"You're a bad dog," Tintin snapped as he dropped to his knees and tried to put the ship back together. "Look what you've done. Look!"

Snowy crept over and tried to stuff his head under Tintin's arm. Once that was achieved he lifted his nose and licked softly at Tintin's chin to show how sorry he was that his master was angry.

"You're a fool," Tintin said with a sigh, scratching at the dog's chin. That was obviously a sign that all was forgiven, so Snowy snatched up the sock again and retreated to a safe distance, growling and shaking it from side to side to show it who was boss. He was angry at it for getting him into trouble. Tintin couldn't help but laugh at him. "You really are a fool," he said, and went back to the ship.

It wasn't badly broken, he was happy to see. A little bit of superglue fixed the mast back in place. He just had to wait until it dried so he could get rid of the little white bubble of glue he could see forming already around the crack. Once the mast was back in place, it was easy to untangle the rest of the rigging and pull it tighter into place. One thing was for sure, though: he certainly couldn't give it to anyone as a Christmas gift.

There came another knock at the door. This time it _had _to be the Captain. He opened the door and grinned at the man.

The Captain looked well. "All right?" he said brightly in his thick, Northern England accent.

"Just the person I wanted to see!" Tintin replied happily. "Come in, come in."

"I see you moved everything back properly," the Captain said as he came in and cast his eye around. The flat was already starting to feel lived-in again, after the few months it had spent empty. It had lost that abandoned feel he'd picked up on when he'd been here on his own, collecting up Snowy's stuff and a few things to send on to Tintin.

"Oh, yes, it's fine," Tintin said. "Look!" He pointed proudly at the ship.

"Oooh!" The Captain made a bee-line for the ship. "Hey, she's a beauty, isn't she? See?" he added slyly, poking Tintin in the side of the ribs. "I told you: I said you'd be tempted to buy me a ship. Nobody can resist it!"

"I know!" Tintin exclaimed. "I no intention of buying it: I was actually on the look out for books. But when I saw it I couldn't resist!"

"It's like a disease or something, isn't it?" the Captain joked. "It just sort of gets into your mind and you can't _not _buy it. Everyone buys me ships. Well, this one is a real beauty, and I'll enjoy adding her to my collection." He went quiet for a minute as he turned the ship this way and that, examining it closely. "Hang on," he said a few seconds later. "Wait a minute…"

"Don't mind the glue," Tintin said quickly. He looked over the Captain's shoulder. "Snowy knocked it over and I had to fix it. I'd say it's dried now, though, and you won't be able to see it once I file down that bubble" –

"Shut up a second. Let me think," the Captain said. Tintin blinked. He didn't sound angry when he'd said to shut up though: just distracted.

"Where did you get this ship?" he asked at last.

Tintin looked at him warily. "Uh, the Christmas market," he replied. "It was in the Old Street Market part of it, where they sell old stuff, and second hand stuff. Not the antique part, just the old crap part."

The Captain ran his hand over his beard. "That's amazing," he said. "That has to be the strangest coincidence… No, it can't be." He bent back down again and started to count… _things. _Nautical things that belonged on ships, which Tintin didn't have a clue about. Finally he straightened back up again. "That can't be the same ship," he declared at last. "But I'd swear it is. I memorized that ship years ago, back when my dad first told me the story…"

"What?" Tintin asked, thoroughly confused.

"Come with me," the Captain said. "Come on. Leave everything: the car's downstairs and it won't take long. Just take a picture of that ship, will you, on your fancy phone?"

"Ok," Tintin said with a shrug. He pulled a lamp over and shone the light on the ship, and carefully took a picture of it from the side, getting in all the detail of the rigging, the masts, the coloured flags, and the gunnery ports. When he was finished, he locked up and followed the Captain and Snowy down to the street, where the Captain's rusty car waited.

**x**

"Here we are," the Captain said as he opened the door to his flat. "Inside, and take a look at the picture over the mantle. Remember that one? The one of my ancestor?"

"Oh, you said there was a story," Tintin reminded him. "You said you'd tell me."

"Yeah, I just forgot all about it," the Captain said as he dropped his keys into a bowl and shrugged his jacket off. He quickly added another few pieces of coal to the fire, to chase away the chill of the evening, and replaced the fire guard. "Check out the ship in the background."

Tintin went up on his tip-toes and examined the ship. He was silent for a good minute and a half, a record in the Captain's experience. "That's amazing," he said at last. "That's the same ship, isn't it? Is it? That can't be the same ship, right?"

The Captain shrugged. "I have no idea. Show us the picture you took on your phone."

Tintin quickly scrolled through the menu until he found the gallery. He opened the picture and turned the phone on its side to make it bigger. He held it up against the painting so the Captain could compare the two. "That's the same ship!" the man exclaimed. "That _is _the same ship! I knew it! I flaming knew it!"

"It can't be," Tintin said. "The chances of it being the same ship are astronomical! I mean, for a start it…" He glanced back and forth from the photo to the portrait, trying to find a difference between the two ships. They were both being viewed at almost the same angle, as the tall ship in the portrait floated on a blue-green sea of paint beside the Other Haddock's right shoulder. While the photo was taken directly of the side, the one in the painting was positioned so that most of the side and part of the stern were visible. "Ok, so that's the same ship," he finished lamely. "Hang on, there's a name on the one in the painting. See, there?" He pointed up at the tiny writing, painted carefully on. "Uh, _La Licorne," _he read carefully. _"The Unicorn." _

The Captain peered at it closely. "So it is. I never noticed that. I knew the ship was _The Unicorn, _of course, but I never noticed that writing before. I thought it was just a squiggle of wood or something. You know how painters are."

"That's because it's in a different language," Tintin said. "How old were you when you memorized the ship?"

"Ugh." The Captain grimaced. "Years ago. I was just a child."

"See? You wouldn't have known French back then, so it wouldn't have made any sense to you. Besides, you were probably more worried about dinosaur attacks."

"I'll swing for you," the Captain promised.

"I'm just saying that when you were younger you couldn't possibly have known that it was writing in another language. It's small and smudged and would look like a squiggle to anyone," Tintin said consolingly, before adding, "besides, pterodactyls are scary and could probably eat a child before anyone – Ow! Don't hit me with that cushion, Captain! Captain! That's child abuse! _Child abuse!" _

The Captain got in another good hit before tossing the cushion back on to the couch. "Cheeky beggar. What's the name on the model ship?"

Tintin quickly enlarged the picture, but shook his head. "I can't see it from this angle. I didn't think to take a picture from another angle. We should have brought it with us."

"Hindsight is 20/20," the Captain said. "Want me to drive you back to yours?"

"No, it's only around the corner. I'll be back as quick as I can."

**x**

It took barely ten minutes to get to his own flat from the Captain's. He hurried up the stairs, automatically calling a greeting to his landlady, Mrs Finch, who was pottering around in the communal laundry room on the ground floor – she did the laundry for anyone who lived there, for a small fee of course. It was handy, and Tintin had often availed of her services in this regard when he just couldn't be bothered to do his own washing – and quickly pulled out his door key.

His door was open.

He stared at it, puzzled. "I locked you," he said at last. "Why are you open?" He glanced down at Snowy, but the dog seemed quite at ease. If someone _had_ broken in then they were already gone: Snowy would have reacted differently if there was a stranger in the flat.

He pushed the door open fully and went in cautiously, looking around to see what was missing.

He could have guessed it, though. It was a small feeling in the bottom of his stomach: the ship was missing.

"Of course it is," he said flatly. He pulled out his phone and quickly called the Captain, who answered after the first two rings.

"_Well?"_ the man asked.

"It's gone," Tintin replied.

"_You what!" _the captain said incredulously. _"What do you mean: gone?"_

"I mean it's gone," Tintin repeated. "My flat's been broken in to! It's missing!"

"_You're kidding! Right, I'm coming over. Stay right there."_

"No, don't worry about it," Tintin said quickly. "The ship is the only thing that's missing. Everything else is untouched: just the ship."

"_So someone broke in to your house with the sole intent of nicking a model ship?"_

"Looks like it." Tintin gave the rest of his sitting room a cursory glance. "Everything else is still here. In fact, nothing else has even been disturbed. Just the ship."

"_That's flaming ridiculous! You sure you don't want me to come over?"_

"No, Captain, it's fine. There's no point: they got what they wanted. They won't be back."

"_Bloody thieves. Ought to be strung up. Do you have any idea who would steal a model ship?" _

"No one at all," Tintin said slowly as he took Mr Sakharine's card out of his pocket. He fingered it thoughtfully. "At least, I don't think so… Look, I'll talk to you tomorrow, ok?"

"_All right, lad. Any problems, you phone me. At once. Got it?"_

"Got it."

"_Good. Stay safe. And I'll talk to you tomorrow."_

**x**

Twenty minutes later the tram stopped at the end of Eucalyptus Avenue, on the west side of the city centre. Tintin hopped off and set to work trying to find number 21, which was the address on Mr Sakharine's business card, which billed him only as a 'collector'. He found it quickly and rang the doorbell, leaving his finger on it for far too long in his annoyance. The sheer gall of the man! Leaving his business card and all but announcing his intention of getting the ship one way or another.

"He's going to get a big surprise when he opens the door," Tintin muttered darkly.

The door opened, revealing Mr Sakharine. He was already wearing his dressing gown and underneath the lush, thick fleece Tintin caught a glimpse of his pyjamas. "Ah! There you are!" Mr Sakharine said, looking far from surprised. "I've been expecting you. Please, do come in."

_I think I need an adult, _Tintin thought wryly. "You were expecting me?" he managed, as he followed Sakharine inside. "Then you know why I've come?"

"Of course," Sakharine answered, as though it was obvious. "You've come to swap your ship for one of mine, haven't you? And don't worry, my boy: if you sell the replacement ship and make a bit of money, I wouldn't dream of telling your father."

"That's not why I'm here," Tintin said. He pushed by Mr Sakharine. Ahead of him were some stairs that led up to the second story of the house. To his right was the sitting room. The door stood open and a tray of tea and biscuits were set out on the coffee table. The television was on, showing an old episode of a Swedish crime drama. To the left was a sturdy wooden door. He made a guess and went through that door, and into a long, white room filled with glass cases of ships. "This is your collection?" he asked, as he walked purposely among the ships. "Because I've come to tell you, Mr Sakharine, that my ship has been stolen."

"Stolen?" Sakharine gasped as he trailed behind the teenager. "But" –

"And I want to know what it's doing there," Tintin said triumphantly, pointing at the model of _La Licorne. _It stood on it's own on a shelf, with no glass to protect it. "Care to explain?" Tintin asked, his voice clearly stating that the explanation had better be a good one.

"But that's my ship," Mr Sakharine said in surprise.

"Yours!" Tintin gave a short bark of laughter.

"It's true! I've had it for more than ten years," Mr Sakharine insisted.

"Ten years my ar- foot," Tintin quickly corrected himself. Clearly hanging out with the Captain was starting to influence him in more than one way. While knowledge of ships wasn't a bad thing, random swearing probably wasn't the best thing in the world. "You tried to buy it off me this afternoon!"

"That wasn't this ship!" Mr Sakharine exclaimed. "No, listen: I'm telling you the truth. There were completely identical, I won't lie to you, but they were two _different_ ships."

"Rubbish!" Tintin declared. "You won't be aware of this, but shortly after you left my flat today, my dog actually broke my ship. The mast snapped and I had to glue it back into the deck, and you can clearly see where the glue has set. See?" He pointed at the main mast.

"No," said Sakharine blankly. "There's nothing there."

"Yes there is! I – Oh!" Tintin bent down and examined the ship closely. There was no white bubble of glue. He carefully twitched the mast from side to side, but there was no give in it beyond the slight bending of the slender wood used to make the tall mast. It wasn't broken. "This isn't my ship," he said quietly.

"I told you," Mr Sakharine said excitedly. "Honestly, when I saw your ship today, I was as surprised as anyone! I picked this ship up in an antique shop in London, and until today I was under the impression that it was the only one of its kind. I don't even know who it was made by, other than he was a very talented amateur. There's no maker's mark or date. All I know of it is that it's a copy of Sir Francis Haddock's _Licorne. _And of course, everyone knows the story," he added, waving his hand dismissively.

"What story?" Tintin asked.

"Oh, it's very long and involves pirates and explosions and all sorts of things. Very thrilling, but I'm not that much of a story teller."

Tintin carefully moved the ship on its fancy stand – his hadn't come with such a beautiful stand, that was for sure – and checked the name: it was _La Licorne, _just like the one in the portrait. He checked the prow and saw the distinct figurehead of a rearing unicorn. He'd noticed it on his own one, when he was dusting it, but all that had registered with him was how much dust had managed to creep into the hollows of the animal.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," he said at last, straightening up. He offered his hand to Mr Sakharine, who shook it graciously. "This isn't my ship at all. Please, do forgive me."

"Think nothing of it, my boy. I'm just sorry that your ship was stolen. If you find it, please let me know. I'd love to take a picture of the two of them, side by side, for my collection."

"Of course, Mr Sakharine, it would be the least I could do. But I doubt I'll be so lucky as to get it back," he added with a shrug.

"Stranger things have happened," Mr Sakharine said as he showed his guest out.

**x**

Stranger things, indeed. Tintin zipped his jacket up to his chin and stuffed his hands in his pockets. It had started to rain while he was in Mr Sakharine's house (who, you will remember, plays a very small part in this story and it's just sheer coincidence that he looks like somebody else who will appear in time; in fact, he doesn't even look like that person, they just have similar beards) and he regretted coming out with a jacket that didn't have a hood on it. He wasn't even wearing his favourite blue hoodie underneath, opting for a brown jumper over a yellow polo shirt that went well with his brown cords.

It was late now, and he had no idea of what way the trams ran over this side of the city, and he couldn't see a bus stop anywhere so he just walked on. It wasn't actually a long walk – maybe thirty minutes if he walked briskly – and there was always the possibility of picking up a cab on the way home. After all, like Mr Sakharine had pointed out, stranger things had happened. But in accordance with the laws of the universe, there were no cabs to be found on a rainy Monday evening.

It took a little over half an hour to get home, but when he finally unlocked the front door and made his way into his building, he was happily looking forward to a cup of something hot and a Pot Noodle to warm himself. He trotted up the stairs, and stopped dead when he reached the second floor.

His door was wide open!

He groaned. "What now?" he asked, exasperated. "What could possibly have happened now? Oh _no!" _

Destruction. He stood in the door way and looked around. His sitting room had been pulled apart. Books had been torn from the bookshelves and tossed around, loose pages spilling over the rug. Pictures had fallen from the walls, pulled down and smashed. Dressers stood open, their contents scattered around, and drawers had been pulled out, up-ended on the floor, and tossed aside as whoever had ransacked the flat moved on. He followed the trail of destruction into the kitchen, and saw that the cupboards and presses here had received similar treatment. Plates and cups were smashed and – Oh no! His favourite mug!

He couldn't help the swear word that burst out of his mouth as he knelt down to pick up the pieces of his Dr Who mug. The TARDIS. was in two pieces, and the rest of it was shattered so badly that no amount of superglue would put it back together again. He stood up and continued on. His little office – the converted, tiny second bedroom that would barely hold a bed and even now held only his desk, his computer, a C.D. player and his impressive C.D. collection, was turned upside down. To sort through the C.D.s alone would take at least half a day. Every disc seemed to be without a box, and half the inlay cards were lying on the floor amid the piles of clear plastic and shiny discs. His laptop, curiously, was still turned off. It didn't look like anyone had touched that, even though the drawers on either side of the desk were open and the mess of papers and old files they had contained were now in equal parts on the floor and on top of the desk.

He turned on his heels and went to inspect the bathroom. This had only been given some cursory treatment: his medicine cabinet was open, his shower gel was lying on the floor, and his laundry hamper had been tossed. Ha! He hoped whoever had done it had gotten his hands dirty in more than one way: Tintin was still working his way through the dirty clothes he'd clocked up while on the _Aurora, _and there'd been a few… well, hair-raising moments during that trip.

His bedroom was a state too. More books on the ground, the bed itself pulled to pieces with his blanket and his duvet and the pillows thrown on to the floor. Whoever had done it had even tossed his mattress: it lay half on the bed as the rest of it wilted onto the pile of bed linen on the ground beside it. His wardrobe was open and his clothes were in a pile just outside of it; everything that had been stacked neatly inside it, at the bottom of the wardrobe, had been pulled out and scattered around. They'd even gone through his pockets!

But what had been taken?

He went to the most obvious places to check. As far as he could see all his DVDs were still there, although most of them were on the floor beside his TV, which was still there. His Playstation was still there. His computer games were still there. Even his jar of change was there, except that now it wasn't standing on the window sill of the kitchen: it was lying smashed on the ground with the coins spilling out of an untidy pile of copper and glass.

"They didn't take anything?" he said aloud, puzzled. He looked down at Snowy, who was snuffling around on the floor. "Nope," Tintin said, as the dog wandered too close to the broken glass. He picked Snowy up and tucked him under his arm to stop the dog from hurting his paws. "We've either been visited by the messy fairies or this burglar was looking for something specific. I wonder what they wanted?" He shook his head and wandered back out to the sitting room.

He wasn't sure of what to do. A crime had taken place, but he didn't know if he could report it. So instead he phoned the Captain.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I didn't actually mean to keep reiterating how the Sakharine here isn't the same person as in the movie, but to be honest it just got funnier so I kept putting little disclaimers in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

* * *

Captain Haddock pushed the door open and surveyed the scene. The flat was a complete mess, like Tintin had said, but it was still a shock to see how completely it had been ransacked. Tintin was sitting on the floor in front of the small fireplace, a book laid carefully on the ground in front of him. Snowy pranced over to say hello, jumping up at the Captain's legs. The Captain bent down and gave the dog an absent-minded pat on the head.

"Good boy, Snowy. What happened here, Tintin?"

"They ruined my _Dragonlance!" _Tintin said sorrowfully. He lifted up the book he had been working on, and even more pages fluttered free. "I love this book. It was a first edition, you know? I got it second hand. It was a once in a lifetime find!"

"Thundering typhoons." The Captain shook his head and took his phone out. "You called the police, yes?"

"No," Tintin said, as he tried to put the book's pages back in order. "I couldn't."

"They didn't nick your phone did they? Blistering barnacles! I'll do it now."

"No, they didn't steal anything." Tintin looked up and realised that the Captain had already dialled the emergency services and had the phone to his ear. "No!" he cried. He leaped up like a jack-in-the-box and snatched the phone from the Captain, disconnecting the call. "You can't do that!" he cried. "If they file a police report, it'll put this as my address and Emilie will find out that I'm not living at you place any more!"

"Flaming hell! I forgot about that! Well, what the hell are we supposed to do?"

Tintin sank back down and went back to trying to fix the book. "It'll be fine," he muttered. "I just need some sticky tape."

"Not the book, you idiot! Look around!" The Captain held his arms wide and gestured to the rest of the flat. Tintin looked up and glanced around.

He shrugged. "I just need to tidy up again, that's all."

The Captain shook his head. "You're not doing it tonight. Come on." He leaned down and forced the teenager to his feet, ignoring his protestations. "I'm not leaving you here on your own, you're coming back to mine. Don't argue with me. Come on: we'll get some chips for supper. Yes? Yes."

**x**

It was warm in the Captain's flat. Tintin had sunk back into the couch – which had somehow become 'his' seat, with the Captain preferred the ancient reclining chair nearby – while the Captain sorted out plates, and soon they were tucking into burgers and chips and drinking steaming cups of tea. The television was on but it was muted, and Snowy was stretched out contentedly in front of the flickering fire.

"We'll sort it all out tomorrow," the Captain promised. "I'll drive you over there in the morning, and we'll clean it up together. We'll get it done quickly enough, you'll see."

"Thank you, Captain," Tintin said. He took a sip of his tea and shifted his body carefully, to get into a more comfortable position, drawing his legs up under him. To the Captain, he looked even smaller than usual. That was actually quite a difficult thing to achieve: he was short for his age and still hoping for a growth spurt that didn't look likely to occur. He looked up at the huge portrait of the Other Haddock. "So what's the story?" he asked with a small smile. "You said it was interesting."

"Oh, you don't want to hear that," the Captain said, waving it away.

"I really would," Tintin insisted. "I love stories."

"Suit yourself," the Captain said. He lit his pipe and sat back, putting his foot on the coffee table. "The man in that portrait is my ancestor, Sir Francis Haddock of London. Back then, England changed religion depending on its ruler. If the King was a Catholic, the country was Catholic and the Protestants were persecuted. If the King was a Protestant, then the country was Protestant and the Catholics were persecuted. To top it all off, Cromwell had popped up and thrown a spanner in the works by committing regicide and taking over the country and changing the rules yet again.

"Sir Francis, who couldn't be arsed with religion much, didn't want to keep changing his religion. He was born a Catholic, y'see, and Haddock men are stubborn creatures. So, instead of changing his religion to suit the ruler, he just found himself a new country and defected to France."

"Which was Catholic at the time," Tintin added.

"Exactly. Now, Sir Francis was a privateer: he was a pirate who worked for a specific King – in his case Louis the Fourteenth – so it was all above board and legal. Privateers didn't consider themselves pirates. They were just common thieves. His job was to attack pirate ships – and ships from enemy countries, come to think of it – and steal the booty for his King. The year, my lad, was 1676, and it all starts in Barbados."

**x**

A stiff wind blew, and the waves were topped by white foam as they beat against the side of the good ship _La Licorne. _They were only two days at sea, but the men were in good spirits and from his perch on the prow Sir Francis Haddock could see one or two dipping into the casket to take a swig of rum. He didn't hold with the English notion of spend-thrift: only the finest spirits for his men, and in return he got the finest men. No grog would ever find its way to _his _ship. Sir Francis knew what it was like, to be part of a crew of men working on the unforgiving seas. Discontent spread like wildfire, and there were many ways to keep it from spilling over into outright mutiny; small ways that cost now but saved money – and lives – in the long run.

"_Sail on the port bow!" _came the cry from the crow's nest. Sir Francis looked around and spotted the ship that had appeared on the horizon. He pulled out his trusted telescopic lens and fixed it on the distant ship. Usually, this close to port, it was simply another ship making for its own distant home, but sometimes it was pirates, the scourge Sir Francis was dedicated to fighting. Not for any reasons of morality – although it was true that most of the pirate kings were hard men who cared little for the human lives they took – but because the gold and plunder they carried fetched a high price on the international markets.

"Thundering typhoons," he said aloud, "she's might close-hauled. Ration my rum if she's not going to cut across our bows." It was a common pirate technique, to cut the ship dead in the waters and force her to stop and fight. But they had another thing coming: _La Licorne _had been chosen because she was one of the fastest ships of King Louis XIV's fleet. There were only a handful of ships that could beat her in open waters like these.

But this ship was fast too. "She's making a spanking pace," he said thoughtfully. "Oho! She's running up her colours. Now we'll see…" He waited as the rigging shifted and a flag was run up to the top of the mast.

_The Jolly Roger!_

"Pirates!" he cried. And now he had a conundrum. He was already loaded down with plunder destined for France, and had no intention on taking on another ship for more. On the other hand, he was a Haddock, and a Haddock never backs down. _I can't back down if I'm not here, _he reminded himself. "Ahoy there!" he roared. Every crew man jumped to attention. They had seen the ship too, and were simply waiting for his orders. "Clear the deck for action! Man the poop! Stand by to haul to the wind!"

Within minutes the huge sails were unfurled fully. The wind caught them at once and they billowed as _La Licorne _picked up speed and rode the waves away from the pirate ship. Sir Francis, satisfied, went to the rail and watched the pirate ship, hoping to see it outrun quickly.

Something was wrong.

"Captain," his First Mate, Mr Nichols said warningly.

"I see it," Sir Francis said. "Looks like another one needs a spanking. Men!" He turned his back on the ship and his crew scrambled to him at once. "Looks like they're spoiling for a fight! What do you say? Shall we teach them scallywags a lesson?"

The roar of approval was almost deafening. This was a familiar situation to the men of _La Licorne; _just another fight to add to the many they had already faced. No man on board thought of desertion in that moment: all of them had fought beside the fierce Haddock and knew their staunch captain would defend them all to the bitter end.

Sir Francis slapped Mr Nichols on the back. "Take the wheel, old friend. Let's use our wits, no? We'll wear ship and pay them back on the port tack." As Mr Nichols hurried to the bridge, Sir Francis started issuing orders to the rest of the crew. "To battle stations," he shouted. "Man the guns! Let's teach these scurvy slags a lesson they won't soon forget!"

Around him the ship burst into activity as the gunners peeled off from the rest of the crew and headed down to the belly of the ship. He could already hear the heavy sounds of the cannonade being made ready, and the dull thunks and metallic grinding of cannon balls being rolled into place. Other men were taking up position on the decks. They already knew the best places to defend from, and they were readying their weapons as they worked to swing the ship about.

_La Licorne _listed slightly as she swung about sharply. _That must have surprised the pirates, _Sir Francis thought with a sly, smug smile. Most ships in _La Licorne's _position would be making ready for a defence, and the pirates were prepared for that. They hadn't expected for their quarry to turn tail and bite first. Mr Nichols, an old lag at the wheel, looked completely relaxed and unconcerned as _La Licorne _cut across the enemy and sailed quickly alongside.

"_FIRE!" _Sir Francis bellowed.

Twenty five cannons roared in almost perfect unison. The ship jolted as the heavy steel and iron of the cannonades burst back against the force of the cannon balls, heavy enough to rock the whole of the large, heavy ship. On deck, Sir Francis swayed slightly, but didn't look for a moment as though he would fall or lose his footing. He was one with his ship. She was an extension of him, and he knew her intimately.

The smaller pirate ship disappeared behind a curtain of smoke, ashes and splintering wood. When the air cleared, he could see that _La Licorne's _superior fire-power had done its job, and done it well. But it wasn't a crippling blow, not yet. Both ships were close enough to each other that he could see the crew scrambling to follow the orders of their own captain, and he could see another flag being raised.

_The Red Pennant._

No quarter was to be given: this was to be a fight to the death. He grinned: it was the only kind of fight he liked.

"Take arms, men!" he shouted. "Mr Nichols, bring us round. Let's give her the kiss of the cannon balls!"

Once again _La Licorne _peeled away and swung hard a'starboard. Her sails billowed as she tore back to position, riding alongside the pirate ship like a cheeky child on a toy cart.

"_FIRE!"_

The guns screamed out again, blasting the stern and side of the pirate ship. He could hear the cries of dying men and smell the blood in the air already, but this time, when the cloud of debris cleared, it cleared as the pirates attempted to board _La Licorne. _Under cover of the dust cloud, the order had been given and the grappling hooks sailed across the watery gulf: the pirates were attacking.

Sir Francis was a military man; he fought with precision and careful planning, with the intent of keeping as many of his men alive as possible. The pirates fought like demons, and didn't care if they lived or died. If they lived and failed, they would die ignobly upon the gallows, and if they won they would live as they always did: like rats on a raft, eating scraps from their master's plate.

"_All hands to prepare boarders!"_

The cry went up and was repeated as Sir Francis's crew rushed to the rail, their weapons drawn, intent on defending their ship. The first wave of the pirates hit them, and faced the wrath of the defenders. For a brief moment Sir Francis thought that they held the upper hand, that they would beat this rag-tag bunch as easily as they had beaten all the others, but their captain was a wily man too. A second round of grappling hooks swung forth from the pirate ship and the second wave of boarders was quickly upon them.

Sir Francis entered the fray calmly, his rapier drawn. He quickly drew two pirates away from the main body of fighting and dealt with them quickly. He stepped over bodies, refusing to look down and see if they were his men or not, and engaged another pirate, a dirty beast of a man wearing the filthy remnants of a British uniform.

"You, sir, are a disgrace," Sir Francis said, managing to ignore his own defection from the Crown. To be fair, he hadn't even kept his own British uniforms: he'd burned them before he'd left the country. He was many things, but at least he wasn't a hypocrite.

The fight raged around him. He finished the dirty brute quickly and hacked at the ropes that connected more grappling hooks to the masts and rigging of _La Licorne. _Ahead of him, one of his own men was hooked by the wicked barbs of an incoming boarder. Sir Francis cut the rope and noted with grim pleasure the answering scream and splash as the boarder fell to a watery grave, to be ground to death between the two ships or sucked under by the ebb and flow. His own man fell, and Sir Francis finished him cleanly, unwilling to allow the man to suffer for too long. They were far away from help, and even if they won his wounds would fester before they would be able to get him to a doctor.

Steel rang against steel as he deflected and parried blow after blow, wading through the fight like a leviathan, trying to save lives wherever he could. He was an able swordsman. Up on the bridge, he could see Mr Nichols send an errant pirate flying with a well-placed boot to the chest. The pirate sailed down and landed heavily on the deck, and Sir Francis could hear the crack of his back breaking and the scream of agony above the sound of the fight. It didn't matter though; even as he himself moved on, others around the wounded man continued the fight, and trampled him to death.

Mr Nichols placed his cutlass between his teeth. Taking a hold of some cut rigging, which swung backwards and forwards over the decks, he jumped from the bridge and swooped down over the fighting, dropping nimbly and landing beside Sir Francis. His hand whirled out and a concealed throwing dagger flashed by Sir Francis's head, and buried itself to the hilt in the eye of a pirate that was sneaking up behind him.

"I thought you might need some help, Captain," Mr Nichol's said simply. The man hadn't even broken a sweat, and looked completely unperturbed.

"Glad of your company as always, Mr Nichols," Sir Francis replied just as calmly. They quickly got into their favourite fighting position: back to back. They moved as one, anticipating the other's actions. They were a four armed, graceful fighting machine that took down anything that came too close to them that wasn't wearing French colours.

But the tide had turned against them, and they were fighting desperately. There were simply too many pirates. Most of them, Sir Francis realised, were black: slaves stolen from countless slave ships. They carried no weapons bar those that they could steal from the dead at their feet. Their primary use was as fodder for the one-shot muskets that Sir Francis's men carried on their belts. The real pirates were using the slaves as human shields, and Sir Francis cursed himself for not thinking to do the same with his own human cargo still shackled down below.

The heaving mass of men shifted, and a newcomer stepped forward. He had landed lightly on the deck, and was making his way towards Sir Francis.

"Here's trouble," Mr Nichols said.

"I see him," Sir Francis replied warily. "The captain?"

"Wouldn't think so, sir: he's not well dressed enough."

The newcomer was a greasy Spaniard with dark olive skin. A scar disfigured his otherwise handsome face, and left one corner of his mouth in a perpetually twisted smile. He grinned at Sir Francis, showing yellowed teeth tipped with gold. "Two on one," he said in a rough accent. "Not so fair, no?" His hand moved quickly and a musket came up. Sir Francis shouted out a warning as the muzzle of the gun flared and sparked and roared into life. He felt, rather than saw, Mr Nichols go down as the musket ball hit him somewhere about his person.

"You pickled herring of a bastard!" Sir Francis flung himself on the Spaniard, who dropped his musket and parried the onslaught with a wordless grunt. Sir Francis, a tall man, had at least a head on the Spaniard, and had the weight of a well-fed man. The Spaniard was whip thin, but fast. He ducked and weaved and started to draw Sir Francis away from main body of fighting. Sir Francis noted this, and realised that he was being drawn into a more open part of the deck. He spun and dropped his sword arm, slicing at the Spaniard's legs. The Spaniard leapt up, and Sir Francis used the seconds-long lull to take stock: there were a small group of men on the pirate ship. They were at the rail and they were quickly reloading their muskets. The Spaniard was going to draw Sir Francis closer to them, so they could get a clear shot at him. _Not if I can help it, _he thought grimly.

Before the Spaniard could right himself, Sir Francis was on him. He ducked behind the man and forced him to turn and defend, and started pushing him back towards the main fight. He ducked as a weighted sand bag, still suspended from the adrift rigging, swung by close to his head. The Spaniard, sensing what Sir Francis's plan was, pushed forward and the two men were locked together, their swords caught at the hilt as they fought for supremacy.

Sir Francis, it has been noted, was a Haddock. And Haddocks, as everyone knows, are bastards in a fight.

The Spaniard grinned in his face, and Sir Francis could smell the stink of rum on his breath. He smiled back, and saw the flicker of uncertainty in his enemy's eyes.

His left hand flicked out and his hidden dirk sliced through the thin skin of the Spaniard's belly, spilling his innards. The Spaniard staggered back and looked down, wondering what the bloody, shiny things slithering from his wound were. He looked back up at Sir Francis, astonished, and Sir Francis ran him through. "Now stay down, dog," he commanded.

He dashed to Mr Nichols, who lay on the deck with his hand pressed against his neck. His eyes were already starting to cloud. Sir Francis ignored the fight and dropped to his knees to cradle his First Mate. "It…" Mr Nichols gasped.

"Save your strength," Sir Francis ordered. "You're not done yet, mate."

"It… has been… a pleasure, sir." Mr Nichols gasped one last time, a short spray of blood fountaining from his lips. It splattered wetly against Sir Francis's cheek but he didn't notice it. In his arms, Mr Nichols seemed to deflate as life fled his body.

"Goodbye, old friend," Sir Francis whispered. He gently closed Mr Nichols's eyes and wondered vaguely if he had two pennies to spare, to pay the ferryman.

He stood up slowly, making sure he rested Mr Nichols head gently against the deck, which was slick with blood, and finally took stock of his surroundings. Most of the bodies were black slaves and his own men, their proud uniforms stained with ruby puddles of blood. A handful of his men were still fighting, and he knew there were more below defending the guns. They could still win, if he kept his head.

He moved his foot, and it hit against Mr Nichols's head.

It started as a low growl, building in his stomach and growing as it erupted into a scream of outrage and sheer, blinding anger. Everyone stopped for a second as the normally stoic man howled his grief and gave it voice. He flung himself into the fight, his sword swinging madly.

**x**

"What happened?" Tintin asked breathlessly. He was leaning forward now. The Captain had stopped speaking to refill his glass. He was half-cut now, having been drinking throughout the whole of the story, claiming it was making his throat dry from talking so much.

"Relax," the Captain said with a grin. "He didn't die. Not then, anyway. According to his own account" –

"His own account?" Tintin asked.

"Aye: he left a hand-written journal – I have it in an old chest of his, under the bed I think – with the whole story there for anyone to read. It's a cracking little book, I must say. He had a fascinating life."

"Can I see it?"

"Do you want to hear the end of this or not?"

"No, I want to hear the end," Tintin said quickly. "Please, do go on."

"Well, to be honest with you, he was knocked out. He entered his berserker rage, he called it, and fought like a demon, but something fell from the rigging and landed right on his head and knocked him out. Luckily, like all Haddocks, he had a thick skull. He came to a few hours later with a raging headache and not many other injuries to show for himself…"

**x**

He was upright. That in itself was a very telling thing, because it meant he still had a body to remain upright in. From this, he could deduce he was still alive. He could really, really use a bottle of rum, he realised. He was thirsty as hell. He looked around, taking stock of the situation. He was lashed tightly to the deck, the ropes wound around his body with his arms secured to the sides of the smallest of the three masts. He could move his hands, but that was about it. He was on his feet, but his legs were securely tied. He would have to figure that out later.

Around him, the deck was busy. Men he didn't recognise were going forwards and back, taking heavy chests and arms from the listing pirate ship, which was low in the water, and placing it into the expansive holds of _La Licorne. _So he had crippled their ship, then. He felt a small measure of pride at that. It might have been the least he could do, but at least he had done it. The men were ignoring him though, and scurried about their work quickly.

A figure stepped into his line of sight. It was a tall man who wore a brown and grey tunic and matching breeches. On his head was a large, foppish hat crowned with trailing red feathers. His cloak was also blood red, draped about his shoulders and secured with a large ivory brooch cunningly worked into the shape of a human skull. Diamonds glittered coldly in the eye sockets. On his feet were a showy pair of red leather ankle boots. The heels, he noticed, were raised slightly, to add height to the already-impressive figure. He was holding a large chest.

"Regard me well, dog," said the grinning figure. "I am Red Rackham!"

"Your servant, sir," he said dryly. "And I am Sir Francis Haddock."

Red Rackham came closer, peering down from his elevated height into Sir Francis's face. "Doesn't my name fill you with dread? Doesn't it freeze your blood?" he demanded. "It should, and it will: you have killed Diego the Dreadful, my trusted Mate."

"It was only fair," Sir Francis replied calmly, "for he had done the same to me."

Red Rackham grinned, showing his gold teeth. "More than half of my crew are dead or wounded," he continued. "My ship is sinking, damaged by your blasted guns. You holed us below the waterline."

"Good."

"So I'm taking yours instead."

"You can try."

Red Rackham laughed incredulously. "So blithe in the face of certainty! Your men are dead and we have your ship. What you see about you are the remnants of my booty being brought onboard. We _have _your ship."

"For now," Sir Francis said flippantly.

Rackham laughed again. "You're an interesting man, Sir Francis. Scourge of the pirate seas. Dealer of death to those that dare to break the law. You would have made a fine pirate, you know."

"Probably."

Rackham chuckled and shook his head. "You were on the wrong side, my friend. Look at what could have been yours." He opened the sizeable chest he held and showed Sir Francis the contents. Inside, gems and gold and silver and coins of all sizes and shapes glittered, and for a moment Sir Francis felt the familiar pull of greed. He steeled himself and looked away. "You could have kept all the treasure you… _liberated, _but instead you gave it away. Such madness!"

"I'm not that fond of magpies," Sir Francis said, attempting a shrug. His arms moved with the motion, and he filed that away for future reference. "Besides, by giving it back I get cold, hard cash I spend in any port in any country, and keep my freedom and good name. You, sir, will be strung up from the gibbet if you ever dared exchange your stolen blood-money for wares. And it's no more than you deserve."

Rackham stared at him coldly, all pretence of warmth gone. "This box alone is worth six times a king's ransom. I should know: I was the one that ransomed the king."

Sir Francis shrugged again, and felt the ropes loosen even more. "Did you come here just to tell me that?"

"No," Red Rackham said shortly, "I came to tell you that those who defy me pay dearly for their folly! Tomorrow morning I shall hand you over to my men. And believe me, Haddock, those little lambs know just how to administer a lingering death!" He laughed nastily and walked away, leaving Sir Francis to ponder the situation.

**x**

Night came slowly to the balmy skies. The ship rocked gently in the slow breeze that caressed it. He could hear the remaining crew of the pirate ship behind him, somewhere on the lower deck at the stern of the ship. They had found the cargo of rum already. They were on to their third cask in as many hours, and were disgracefully drunk. They had also found the cowering cabin boy, and Sir Francis had tried to block out the youth's screams and pleas. He hadn't been successful. The boy had stopped screaming after about an hour, and once the men were all finished with him they'd slit his throat and dropped him overboard for the sharks.

Sir Francis had been working quietly for the whole evening, and had finally managed to free his left hand from the ropes. He laughed quietly as he worked to free his right, and soon that was achieved. Making no noise, he carefully unwound the rope from around his body and stepped free as it coiled to the ground with a faint slither that was drowned by the noise of the drunken pirates. "Free!" he whispered triumphantly. "I'm free! On your guard, Red Rackham: here I come!"

**x**

"And with that," the Captain said, "he threw himself" –

"Not on the pirates!" Tintin cried in horror. "He was unarmed!"

"No-oo!" the Captain scoffed. "Not at all! He threw himself on a bottle of rum that was rolling on the deck, and he drank it all like this." He raised his bottle of whisky to his mouth, but before he could take another drink Tintin seized it and pulled it from his grasp.

"And then he stopped," Tintin said, "'This is no time for drinking,' he said, 'because I need all of my wits about me.' With that, he put the bottle back down aaaaaaaand…?"

"Right, yeah," said the Captain. "Er, he put the bottle down and" –

**x**

Sir Francis finished the bottle of rum in one go and tossed it overboard. It hit the water with a soft splash that went unheard by all except him. He slunk forward, keeping to the shadows as he made towards the hold and the magazine, where all the gunpowder and shot was stored. On his way he found a discarded cutlass, his own finely made rapier long gone, and made sure to pick it up. He felt better once he held a sword in his hand, even though he didn't doubt for a second that all the pirates were drinking heavily and unable to fight. It was the same after any battle on the high seas: you drank hard to forget the fact that you had blood on your hands, and that you'd seen your mates die under the swords of the enemy. You drank to their memory, to their passing, and a small part of you drank to the loss of your own innocence.

He went down the stairs quickly and into the heart of the magazine. Barrels of shot and gunpowder were piled neatly all around, with a few clear aisles to make navigating the room relatively easy. Using the blade of the cutlass, he levered out the stopper of one barrel and turned it on its side. The dark, fine powder spilled out freely, and he carefully moulded it and made it into a long, thin line of a fuse. Using his flint, he made a few sparks and blew lightly on the end of the fuse until the flame took hold and started to spit and sparkle, winding its way towards the barrel. Once the flame hit that barrel it would explode, and the resulting rush of flame would catch the rest of the store in its wake, blowing the bottom of the ship apart and sinking it from right under Red Rackham's nose.

He had only a few minutes to get to the jolly boat and get off the ship. He turned to go, satisfied at his plan, and stopped dead.

Red Rackham stood on the steps to the deck, glaring down at him. He held his own sword, unsheathed and ready. "So I've caught you," he said. He started down the steps to Sir Francis. "You thought to blow us all sky high, eh? Well, you won't have that pleasure, you scurvy dog! I'll skin you alive before I even douse that fuse!"

The battle was joined, man on man. They exchanged a few quick blows, each trying to get the measure of the other, and Sir Francis realised a very important fact: Red Rackham was a coward. Oh, he might not have always been a coward – he had good form and he knew his stuff – but it had been many a year since he had taken on a man on his own. No doubt he was used to fighting as one of many, with other men at his back to do the brunt of the work and take the worst of the blows. Sir Francis, on the other hand, was a solo fighter without Mr Nichols, and thought nothing facing two, even three men on his own. One enemy was nothing to him: to Red Rackham's black heart it was death.

He flicked the blade out, slapping Red Rackham across the legs with the flat of the steel. "Come on then, you fancy-dress freeloader!"

"By Lucifer, I'll shave your beard, you porcupine!"

"Better a porcupine than a concubine, you high-heeled woman!" The red haze was beginning to fall in front of Sir Francis's eyes again. "I'll pluck your feathers, you squawking popinjay! Fresh water pirate! Pithecanthropus!"

Behind him, the fuse sizzled and sparked. He allowed Red Rackham to drive him back towards the powder, keeping an eye on it as he went. When he was close enough, he lunged backwards and stamped it out with the heel of his boot. Once that was done, he grinned slyly at Rackham before throwing himself forwards, fighting as though he was possessed. He lurched and feinted to the right, and as Rackham's sword slashed out at the empty space he thought his enemy would be in, Sir Francis caught him a blow to the side of the head. Rackham staggered forward. Sir Francis darted back and sliced upwards, the point of his sword entering the other man's side. It slid in slowly and easily, as though it had always belonged there. Rackham's eyes widened and he looked at Sir Francis. His mouth moved wordlessly. He looked frightened.

He fell backwards, staggering and landing heavily on his knees. The sword came free with the movement, the hilt held firmly in Sir Francis's hand. Rackham dropped his sword and put his hand to the wound. It was gushing blood, the life-force bleeding from him as it had done from so many of his victims. "May God have mercy on your soul," Sir Francis said tightly. Rackham fell back. His body twitched spasmodically before he finally died, and was still.

Sir Francis closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks before turning back to the fuse. He had to make it longer again before lighting it, but once it was done he fled from the magazine and readied the jolly boat. He quickly shimmied down the rope and started to row as fast as he could away from _La Licorne._

He could see her proud figurehead silhouetted against the midnight blue sky; the unicorn's horn and its prancing, rearing front legs, the hooves drawn up as though the animal sought freedom and the chance to run with the wind. He pushed the feeling of regret away – even though they were drunk he couldn't hope to liberate the ship from so many pirates, and even if he did he was only one man, and couldn't sail it on his own – and redoubled his efforts. All the time he rowed, he counted under his breath. He made it to fifty beats before ship exploded, wood and flame shooting upwards as it turned the night into day for a few short moments. He jumped to his feet and added his scream of triumph to the roar of the flames and the deafening sound of the barrels of shot exploding. "Justice is done!"

The jolly boat hit the shore of an island he hadn't even known was there, and he tumbled forward, knocking his head and greeting the darkness of unconsciousness once more.

**x**

"And that was that," the Captain said. He was now leaning heavily in his chair, completely drunk. "So perished _La Li… La Lu… _the _Unicorn, _that stout ship comma-ma-nded by the brave Sir Francis Haddock. _Hic! _And of all the pirates aboard her, not one eshcaped wi' his life."

"What happened to Sir Francis after that?" Tintin asked, stifling a yawn.

"Ooh, he made friends wi' the natives on the island. He lived there for almost two years, so he says, before getting' picked up by a ship that carried him back t'France. _Hic! _Tha's where his journal ends. Mind you," he added, pulling himself together enough to look thoughtful, "there's a bit of a weird post script, if ya catch my drift."

"What's that?" Tintin stretched out his legs and his arms. It was late now, and he was very tired. It had been a bloody good story, though. Very thrilling, as promised, and with large explosions and pirates.

"On the last page." The Captain leaned forward drunkenly and pawed at the old book. He'd fetched it a while ago, from the trunk under his bed, along with Sir Francis's ancient, mottled hat, which he was wearing for a joke. The feathers drooped with age. Tintin took the book and flicked through the pages to the last one that contained any writing. It was written in old French, and the hand writing was a flowery, cursive script.

"It's sort of like a will," the Captain explained as Tintin read it. "In it, he bequeaths to each of his three sons a model – built and rigged by hi'self – a model of the very ship he preferred to destroy instead of leave to the pirates."

"Like the one I bought?"

"Aye, very much so. In fact, I'd hazard a guess" –

"That I bought one of his ships?"

"Aye. Thundering typhoons, there's no flies on you! Anyway, he says that if each of his sons come together and move the main mast a few inches to the left, they will find something worth finding. See the last words there? _'And thus, the truth will out'." _He toasted Tintin with his glass. "Good story, eh?"

"Very good," Tintin agreed. "And very interesting. What happened to his sons? Did they agree to his request and move the mast?"

"Dunno," the Captain said. His eyes were already closing. "Uh, let's see… Well, one stayed in France and tried to continue his father's work, but he got killed out near Portugal, if memory serves. One died in a duel in Marsielle, I think. He was the youngest. And the eldest one turned Protestant and went back to England. He lost most of the family fortune by drinking it away." He toasted Tintin absently with his empty glass. "No points for guessing which one I'm descended for. Eh? Eh? Ha ha ha!"

Tintin grinned tiredly. "It's a good story, Captain. You should be proud of your ancestor for doing so well for himself."

"Yeah, no doubt." The Captain curled over, his head against the arm of the chair. Tintin got up and gently took the glass from his hand.

"Goodnight, Captain."

"Aye, g'night lad."

"I'm just going to leave this bucket here, ok? Try to get sick in it and not on the floor."

"Gertcha!"

"Ok, goodnight."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Slavery happened. It's awful, but at the time it was normal. There probably would have been slaves on both ships, and the ones on Red Rackham's wouldn't have been given a choice other than fight or die.

I've changed some aspects of Sir Francis's life, to fit better with the story. I couldn't see how an English king would be able to gift lands in Belgium - which wasn't under English control - to anyone. And as you've probably noticed my stories are based firmly in Belgium. On the other hand, in the original French edition of the book Sir Francis worked for Louis the XIV. It was just lucky that England was having technical difficulties during that time period that tied my changes nicely into it.

You'll also noticed that some events in the book are slightly out of order in this version. That's because I needed it to flow better, and it suited it to make it so that Tintin hears the story of the Unicorn before he finds the scroll, and now seemed to be the perfect time to tell it. And I couldn't see this Captain Haddock, the one I write, letting Tintin stay in his flat after it was broken into twice in one day.

And there may be more updates this week because this is a cracking story to write, and I'm having too much fun. Keep watching the skies.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six – Tuesday**

* * *

By 9am Tintin was back in his flat on the Labrador Road. He was already in the sitting room, sitting on the floor as he sorted through the DVDs that were lying in a pile beside him. He was humming along quietly to a song that was playing on the radio as he worked. He glanced up when he heard the front door opening, but it was only Snowy and the Captain. The Captain had taken one look at the mess in the cold, hard light of the morning and declared that he needed another cup of coffee before they started. Then he'd turned on his heel and headed back out with Snowy trotting alongside him, to the little delicatessen two streets away. Now he was back, holding a cardboard tray that contained two Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. A small, clear plastic bag with the name of the deli emblazoned across it hung from his other hand.

"I got us some croissants," he said. "They were just out of the oven and still hot."

"Yum," said Tintin, accepting his coffee carefully. He took the white-plastic lid off and blew gently on the steaming, black liquid. It was still boiling hot.

"Do you have any butter?" the Captain asked as he headed towards the kitchen. Tintin had already swept up the broken glass and crockery, to make it safer for Snowy's paws.

"Should be in the fridge," Tintin called. He took a sip of his coffee and listened to the Captain as the man started to complain.

"Thundering typhoons, where's the food?" the Captain asked loudly.

"I didn't have time to go shopping yet," Tintin replied, unconcerned.

"What do you live on?" Tintin listened as the Captain started to open presses and cupboards. "Why are there so many Pot Noodles?"

"I like Pot Noodles."

"Is that all you eat?" The Captain sounded astonished. Tintin grinned and in his minds eye he could imagine the Captain standing in front of the press, eyeing the many pots of chicken flavoured noodles. There came more sounds of doors being opened. "Hang on," the Captain called, "I think I found the dog food. You do know that the dog eats better than you do?"

"Yeah, he does. He doesn't like it when I run out of dog food."

"That's sad." The Captain reappeared in the doorway to the sitting room.

He stood with his hands on his hips, reminding Tintin of Superman. _Up, up, and away! _he thought to himself. "I can't be doing with this. I'm popping down to Aldi to get some food."

"Don't worry about it," Tintin said with a grin. "I'll do it myself later."

"I don't trust you to do it."

"You're just trying to get out of helping me clean up."

"Yes, I am. You stay here and don't get into any more trouble."

Tintin gestured to the mess that surrounded him. "What more trouble could there be?"

"That's the problem with you," the Captain said as he put his cap firmly on his head. "You just attract trouble. I won't be long. And don't eat all them croissants."

"I can't make that promise." Tintin toasted him with the coffee cup as he left. The front door closed and he heaved a sigh and stared at Snowy. Intrigued by the noise, the dog came over and sat down in front of his master. "Looks like it's just you and me," Tintin said. Snowy cocked his head. "So we best get on with it, eh?"

Snowy stood up, his tail wagging, and wandered off to find a better place to sleep.

**x**

He was on his knees, sorting through his books with a black bin bag beside him when there was a knock on his door. The bag was half filled with books that were too badly ruined to keep. Pages had been torn out of some, and most had been walked on and were crumpled and shredded by the soles of heavy shoes. It was a struggle to figure out which pages belonged to which books, but he was determined not to lose any more books than was necessary. He sighed and stood up, wiping the dust and grit from the knees of his jeans, and answered the door.

"Hello," he said. As one, the Thompsons turned around and looked at him. He blinked when he saw their injuries. Both sported blackened right eyes and neat rows of stitches along their right cheeks, in almost exactly the same place. The cuts weren't long though; each only had two stitches, and they were the very temporary kind that dissolved after 48 hours or so. "What happened to you two?" he asked, shocked.

The looked at each other. "Er, nothing really," Thomson said.

"Just a bit of trouble in the Christmas market," Thompson added.

"Just a misunderstanding," Thomson continued. "Anyway, we've come to pay you back for those walking sticks. We called last night but you were out."

"Oh," Tintin said. He stepped back and opened the door fully. "Come in. Did you get your wallets back?" he asked offhandedly.

"I'm afraid not," Thomson said. He sounded annoyed. "I had to buy a new one this morning." He reached into his inside pocket to pull it out. "I have to say, I…" He stopped, and checked his other pocket. "I don't believe it!" he cried at last. "I've been robbed again!"

"Are you serious?"

"Those sodding thieves! If I ever get my hands on them I'll… Wait a minute," Thomson said with a scowl, "that man we met last night. You remember him, Thompson: we met him on the stairs, when we were just leaving here. He bumped into me."

"He bumped into me too," Thompson replied anxiously. He too started to check his pockets.

"What did he look like," Tintin asked. If they met a man on the stairs last night, it could have been the same person who had broken in to his flat. They might have been here just before it happened!

"He was quite tall," Thomson said slowly. He closed his eyes for a second and thought about it. "He was coarse looking… black hair… small black moustache. He was wearing a blue suit, and a brown hat, I think. Yes, definitely brown."

"My wallets gone too!" Thompson said angrily. "Sodding thieves!"

The description of the man sounded familiar. Tintin racked his brain, and remembered suddenly where he knew him from: he was the second man from the Old Street Market, who had also tried to buy the ship. "Wait a minute," Tintin said, thinking hard. There was no doubt about it: the man they'd met was the man who'd broken in. He'd bet his life on that. It was too much of a coincidence. But there was on thing that didn't make sense. "If you bought your wallets this morning, there's no way he could have stolen them last night."

"Hmm," Thomson said with a sniff. "I suppose that's true."

"A brand new wallet!" Thompson was still seething. "Come on, Thomson, we must report this at once."

"He's right," Thomson agreed. He hefted his walking stick and shook it furiously. "We must report it at once." As Thompson left, Thomson took a look around. "What happened here?"

"Oh, nothing," Tintin replied with a shrug. "I'm just tidying up."

"Spring cleaning, eh? Or rather, winter clear out? Say no more, say no more." Thomson tapped the side of his nose and followed his partner. He was too busy attempting to look like he was keeping some huge secret to notice the door was already open. He walked into the thin edge of it and banged his uninjured cheek.

"Watch the door," Tintin murmured.

"Er, quite. Quite." Thomson staggered out onto the landing, which was empty. "Thompson, where are you?"

"Here!" a voice called from downstairs. "I'm just waiting for you."

Tintin peered over the banister and saw Thompson sprawled on his back at the foot of the stairs. That was odd: usually you could hear them quite loudly when they fell down the stairs. "Good luck," he called. He turned around and shut the door firmly on the sounds of Thomson tumbling after Thompson, and rolled his eyes. "The poor Thompsons," he said to Snowy, who was lying down on the floor near the cabinet. "They never seem to have any luck, do they?" He went back to his pile of books and knelt down again to finish off the pile. He was disturbed a few seconds later by the sounds of Snowy growling playfully. He looked up to see almost all of Snowy. The dog was on his belly, his head and front paws under the cabinet. His bum was stuck in the air.

Tintin crawled over, his head down. "What are you doing, Snowy? What's under there?" Snowy had a habit of hiding his toys. He was a terrier, and terriers liked to terrorise, and part of that was the need to dig. In a flat, there was no way to dig through the floors but Snowy was able to satisfy this baffling need by scratching furiously at the duvet and carpet, and hiding toys and treats beneath the furniture.

Tintin pushed the dog out of the way and lay down flat so he could see what was stuck under the low cabinet. He closed one eye and peered slowly around, his eyes trained on the skirting boards. There _was _something there but it didn't look like any of Snowy's toys, and it was far too thin and long to be a Markie, the dog treat Snowy favoured. "What is that?" he wondered. He turned onto his stomach and put his hand under, stretching out his arm until his fingertips brushed against the skirting board. He carefully felt around until he found the thing and gently pulled it out.

"A cigarette?" he asked, puzzled. He wondered if the Captain might have smoked in here, but he'd only ever seen him smoke a pipe. He opened his hand and looked at it. "Paper," he said. An eyebrow raised automatically. He got himself comfortable on his elbows and unfurled it. It was thick, yellow paper that reminded him of parchment, and it was rolled tightly into a long funnel which was why he had mistaken it for a cigarette. He stared at the paper.

There was writing on it. It was in English, but it was written in a beautiful script that reminded Tintin of very fancy calligraphy. He studied it carefully, squinting to try and make out the unusual writing. _"'Three Brothers joyned. Three Vnicornes' – _no, sorry, that's _'Unicorns' – 'in company, sailing in the noonday Sunne will speak. For 'tis from the Light that Light will dawn. And then shines forth…' _Er… 42… I?... 1 and a question mark. Hmm. _'The Eagles plus sign.' _T? Cross? The eagles cross. Hmm."

He looked up at Snowy, who was lying facing him, sniffing at the back of the paper. Tintin let one side of it go and it quickly curled back up, startling the dog. "It's gibberish," Tintin said slowly. "What does that even mean? And where did it come from?"

He looked down on the parchment. It had curled up again quite tightly, even without his help. It was as though it had been curled up like that for so long that the paper didn't remember any other way to exist. But it was so thin, it would have been hidden in something long and very thin. Something round and long and thin.

"The ship," he said, as realization dawned. "It was inside the mast, wasn't it? And when you knocked the ship over, Snowy, the mast broke and it fell out. It must have rolled under here." He stared at Snowy as his brain raced. A few more things fell into place. "That's what they were looking for," he added as he worked it all out. "Whoever broke in here took the ship because they _knew _this was in the mast. When they realised it wasn't they came back to look for it again. They must have thought I'd hidden it somewhere, and tore the flat apart to try and find it. That's why nothing was stolen." He opened the parchment again and stared at the baffling words. "But what's so important about it? It doesn't even make sense." He stared at it some more. One word jumped out at him twice. Three. _Three, _he thought furiously. _Three brothers; three Unicorns. Three… three sons! _"That's it!" He got up at once and grabbed his wallet and keys from the coffee table. He quickly slipped the parchment into his wallet before putting it in his back pocket. He shoved his keys into his front pocket and fetched his jacket from where it hung on the back of a chair in the kitchen. "Come on, Snowy," he said, opening the front door, "let's go."

Snowy trotted out ahead of him. Tintin paused only to pull the door shut behind him before heading down the stairs and out the front door.

**x**

He jogged across the parking lot and in through the front doors of the supermarket. The bus had dropped him almost right in front of Aldi, and he'd watched the oncoming traffic carefully in case the Captain was already heading home, but once he entered the shop and took the time to carefully look around, scanning the heads of the people around him, he could see that the Captain was still on the checkout. He made his way over, reaching him when the Captain was handing over his credit card. "Hurry up!" Tintin said. He took up a plastic bag and started to pack the shopping. "That's a lot of Pot Noodles," he added.

"Yeah, I didn't know what else to get you. But look: there's also bread and milk, like normal people have. What are you in a hurry for?" the Captain asked curiously. He bent and quickly tapped at the keypad of the credit card machine, and inputted his code. "I've a good mind to give you the receipt, by the way."

"That's fine, I'll give you the money for it." Tintin had already packed most of the stuff into two bags. He pulled the trolley forward and started dumping it all in. "I've got something to tell you."

"What's happened now?" The Captain looked at him suspiciously.

"Nothing bad," Tintin said quickly. "Honestly. Everything's fine. Come on!"

The Captain shook his head as Tintin started wheeling the trolley away, and trailed reluctantly behind. "If it's dangerous, I want nothing to do with it."

"It's not, I swear. Where are you parked?"

"Over this way. Go on, then, what's got you all worked up?"

"Last night you said that your ancestor, Sir Francis Haddock, had made and left three models of the Unicorns to his three sons, yes?"

"Yes," the Captain said with a nod. "What about it."

"You said that he told them to move the main mast each, and they would find something. Or at least, _'the truth will out'. _Right?"

"Right." They'd reached the car. He unlocked the trunk and they started to load the shopping into it.

"Why do you think he'd tell them to move the masts?"

"I dunno." The Captain thought about it. "Maybe he was a very particular man and wanted the three ships to be perfect?"

"Then why build them that way? Why not move the masts himself, before giving them to his sons?" Tintin asked excitedly. The Captain shrugged, baffled, so he went on. "Because if his sons had obeyed him, they would have found a tiny scroll of parchment inside the main masts!"

"What?" The Captain frowned at him. "So? How do you know that?"

"Because I found one of the parchments! When Snowy knocked the ship over, he broke the mast and it fell out. I found it a few minutes ago, when I was cleaning up!" He went to pull his wallet out of his pocket, but couldn't find it. He was sure he'd put it in his back pocket… Maybe he'd put it in his jacket pocket… No, not there either… Then where was it?

He thought furiously before shaking his head. "My wallet's just been stolen!" he exclaimed.

"Don't be daft," the Captain said as he closed the trunk of the car. "You probably just left it at home."

"No, I don't think so." Tintin made a fist and banged it gently against the boot of the car. "I had it in my back pocket. I got the bus here, and I remember someone bumped into me. I didn't pay any attention though, because I was looking for your car. In case you passed me on the way back to mine."

"What?" The Captain looked even more confused. He waved the explanation away. "What was on this parchment? D'you remember?"

They got into the car and Tintin racked his brain as he automatically put his seatbelt on and rearranged Snowy on his lap. "I think so. Maybe. Um, let me think… _'Three brothers joyned' – _that must be his three sons – _'Three Unicorns in company sailing in the noonday Sunne will speak' – _that must be the model ships, or rather the parchments. The rest is a bit more difficult. _For… _um… _'For 'tis from light that light shines forth'. _No, sorry, that's not it, it's this: _'For 'tis from the light that light will dawn'. _Under that was; _'And then shines forth', _and then there were some numbers, I think, and maybe two symbols, but I'm not sure what they were or if they were meant to be numbers. And then at the end _'The eagle's cross'. _At least, I think it was a cross. It could have been a lower case 'T'."

"And what does that mean?"

"I have no idea."

The Captain glanced over and laughed at the glum expression on Tintin's face. "Cheer up, lad. It's a nice thought and all, but there's no mystery here."

"I thought it could be treasure," Tintin admitted. "Red Rackham's treasure went down with _La Licorne. _I thought it might tell us where to find the ship's resting place."

The Captain fell silent. "They never did find it, you know," he murmured.

"Maybe you need to find all three scrolls to get the answer," Tintin suggested. He brightened up. "Hey, I know where the second scroll is!"

"Where?" the Captain demanded. Against all reason, he found himself getting more swept up with Tintin's enthusiasm.

"Mr Sakharine has it! I saw it last night. Take a left here."

"Where are we going?"

"To Eucalyptus Avenue. We're going to find Red Rackham's treasure!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** In chapter five I twice referred to the carronade as cannonade. Apologies for the confusion, and many thanks to **Panzershrek** for supplying the correct information (And Panzershrek, I've read Tintin since I was eight, because I come from a family that appreciates books and used libraries as a private baby-sitting service. My current age will remain a mystery because a lady never tells *coy look*).


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

* * *

"It's number twenty one," Tintin said. "Pull in here: there it is."

They got out of the car and went to the door to number twenty one. Tintin raised his finger to press the doorbell when the door was suddenly flung open. He leaned back, startled. An older woman with grey hair and a wild look in her eyes stood there, her handbag drawn up in front of her chest. "Help!" she screeched. "Help! _Heeeelp!" _

"Ok!" Tintin said, unsure of what to do. "Uh, what's the matter?"

"Ooooh!" Tears spilled from the old lady's eyes. "Ooh, God bless us! It's Mr Sakharine! Mr Sakharine's been murdered!"

Tintin's eyes widened. "Murdered!" He couldn't believe it! Whoever else was looking for the scrolls certainly meant business. He and the Captain left her on the doorstep to phone the police and hurried inside. Tintin turned left without thinking: they would find him among his collection. Yes, there he was; lying on the ground at the back of the room. Tintin went to him at once.

"Is he dead?" the Captain asked nervously.

Tintin felt for a pulse. "No," he said. "He's alive, thank God. He's just unconscious. Do you smell that?" He wrinkled his nose at the faint traces of a curiously sweet smell that held a hint of clinical sterility that stung the eyes. It reminded him of hospitals for some reason, and he knew he had smelled it before. "Chloroform," he said firmly. "I think someone used chloroform on him."

"Look at that!" The Captain pointed over Tintin's head, and the boy turned quickly to see what he was talking about. On the shelf, Sakharine's model of _La Licorne _was broken: the mast had been pulled out and was lying beside the ship.

"I suppose the scroll is gone?" Tintin said. He gently shook Mr Sakharine. "Mr Sakharine, can you hear me?"

The Captain examined the broken mast. "Blistering barnacles, we're not the only ones searching for Red Rackham's treasure."

"Nobody move!"

The Thompsons stood in the doorway, their walking sticks held up defensively before them.

"Ah, my old friends, thank goodness you are here" – Tintin began, getting up from beside the still-unconscious Mr Sakharine.

"I'm sorry, but we're on duty," Thomson said. "We can have no old friends."

"Quite right," said Thompson. "We're here to clear up this business."

They moved purposely towards Mr Sakharine. Tintin stood back beside the Captain and decided to leave them to it. If anything, it could be quite amusing, and he didn't think Mr Sakharine had any life threatening injuries.

"First, here is the corpse," said Thomson, pointing his stick at Mr Sakharine.

"To be precise, the corpse is here," Thompson agreed.

"Actually, he's not" – Tintin began.

"And if there's a corpse, there must be a culprit," Thomson continued.

"No, really, he's" – Tintin said.

"A brilliant deduction," Thompson interrupted. "We only have to find him… And he can't be far away. To be precise, he _isn't _far away. In fact," – he turned and levelled his finger at the Captain. "He's right there!"

Tintin's eyed widened. "Uh, I don't think" –

"How dare you!" the Captain cried. "Who d'you think you are, saying that! Me? The culprit? You _dare _accuse me?"

Outside the door, the old woman who had first come upon the crime scene had edged closer. She had had quite a scare when she'd first found Mr Sakharine – Godresthissoul – lying there like that, but she was feeling a bit braver now. Besides, she wanted to know what was happening. She peeked in, ready to face her fear… and shrieked at the sight of two grown men hurtling towards her. Believing that the two brave policemen were running from the murderer, who had hidden in there among the dusty old ships and was now swearing like a sailor, she turned and fled.

"_Miserable earthworms! Sea-gherkins! Tramp balls!" _

Thomson made it to the door first, thinking he had escaped the worst of the Captain's wrath. He was proved wrong when his walking stick followed him swiftly, smacking into the back of his head.

"_Slave-traders! Sea-lice! Black-beetles! Baboons!"_

"Captain! Calm down, please!"

"_Artichokes! Vermicellis! Phylloxera! Pyrographers!" _

Thompson staggered clear of the door and likewise thought he was safe. This notion was also dispelled by a swift walking stick to the back of the head. The Captain could be cunningly accurate when roused.

"_Crab-apples! Goosecaps! Gagglers! Googlers! Jelly-fish!" _

The Captain was also very determined, and very strong. Tintin clung on to the man's waist as the Captain attempted to follow the Thompsons. By the time he'd managed to drag Tintin to the door, they were already racing out of the front door. "Captain please!" he begged. "Calm down!"

"Let me go!"

"No! Calm down first! I'm telling you, they didn't mean it. They're not very bright."

Thomson's face peered through the front door. "Captain, we apologise. Please calm down! We only said that by way of an experiment!"

"Oh yeah?" the Captain snarled. "What experiment?"

The Thompsons dared to enter, but they approached slowly, like a photographer edging towards a lion. "You see," Thompson said, "if you really _had _been guilty, you'd have been upset. And because you're _not _upset, we're completely convinced of your innocence." He stuck his hand out hopefully.

"See?" Tintin said pleadingly. "They're sorry."

"Hmph. Fine. Alright then." The Captain grudgingly took his hand and shook. The Thompsons breathed a sigh of relief.

"If that's all settled," said Thomson, "then perhaps we should start searching for clues. Bloody hell! The corpse is gone!" They stopped dead in the middle of the room and stared at the empty spot Mr Sakharine had been lying in.

"He's over there," Tintin said, tapping Thomson on the shoulder. He pointed over to the corner of the room, near the front window, where Sakharine sat in an armchair holding his head. "I tried to tell you: he's not dead."

"Well that's a bit of bad luck," Thomson said, disgruntled. "I thought we were on track for another promotion."

"You poor thing," the Captain said dryly. "Still, he might drop dead yet."

"What happened, Mr Sakharine?" Tintin ignored the bickering men and went to where Mr Sakharine sat. He got down on his haunches so he could look up into Mr Sakharine's face sympathetically. "Do you remember?" Tintin had a trusting face. He knew it, and he always used it to his advantage. People just seemed to tell him things, even when they had no real reason to do so. There was a curious aura that surrounded him. It broadcast a signal and that signal was: tell me your problems and I will solve them.

Right now, Mr Sakharine responded to that signal. "A man came here last night," he said. "He said he had some engravings that he wanted to sell. They were very old, and very beautiful, and when I bent over them to examine them closely I felt something on my face."

"What do you mean?"

"Er, like a pad or something, clamped over my nose and mouth. I tried to breath, but I don't know what happened after that."

"I think they used chloroform," Tintin said gently.

Mr Sakharine nodded slowly. "That would make sense," he agreed. "I don't remember anything after that. Did he steal anything from my collection?" Sakharine's eyes widened and he struggled to get up.

"No!" Tintin said quickly, calming the man. "He broke a ship but it's easily fixed. Don't worry about that."

"Broke a ship?" Thomson mused. "What's the point of that?"

"Can you describe the man? Do you remember what he looked like?" Tintin continued.

Sakharine thought about it. "I think I knew him. I think I've seen him before; he was familiar… He was sort of fat, and he had a moustache."

"What colour hair?"

"Black," Sakharine said firmly. "He wore a blue suit. And he had a hat."

"Do you remember when we were at the Christmas market?" Tintin said urgently. "Do you remember the other man who tried to buy the model ship?"

"That's him!" Sakharine cried. He then regretted his loudness and clutched his aching head. "That's him," he repeated in a quieter voice. "Yes, definitely. I knew I recognised him from somewhere."

"What man in the Christmas market?" Thompson asked.

"I bought a model ship in the Old Street Market part of it," Tintin said as he got up off his hunkers. "Both Mr Sakharine and a second man tried to buy it off me. The second man was the man you met on the stairs, when you were leaving my flat last night. He's the man you thought stole your wallets. Oh, speaking of which," he added glumly, "my wallet got stolen too."

"You don't say!" Thomson exclaimed. "Well I never! It's extraordinary how many people let their wallets be stolen. It's so easy to take steps to make sure it doesn't happen. Go ahead: try and steal mine."

Tintin looked at the Captain, who shrugged. "Ok," he said at last. He reached forward, went up on tip-toe and slid his hand into the inside pocket of Thomson's jacket. He took a hold of the wallet and pulled it out. It brought with it a length of black elastic, which was quickly stretched to its full length. "Very clever," Tintin said.

"Simple enough, if you only spend the time to think of a solution," Thomson said proudly.

"Childishly simple, in fact," Tintin agreed, giving the wallet back. "We should probably leave you to your investigation though. Good luck, gentlemen."

**x**

"Looks like Red Rachkam's treasure is about to disappear from under our very noses," the Captain said as he dropped Tintin home.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Tintin said with a sigh. "Oh well, it was a nice dream."

"It certainly was." The Captain pulled in to the curb, leaving the front door of Tintin's building clear, like Mrs Finch had insisted. "Well, it's been a busy week."

"It's only Tuesday," Tintin pointed out.

"Feels longer. Come on, let's get your shopping out of my car, so I can go home to bed."

"It's only 5pm!"

"Feels longer," the Captain said darkly. "I think I've aged about a million years since yesterday morning."

"Who's that outside my door?" Tintin asked suddenly.

The Captain glanced around. There was a tall man, rather largely built, wearing a blue suit. He was waiting outside the door to Tintin's building, leaning against the brickwork beside the door as he smoked a cigarette. "Dunno. Do you recognise him?"

"I think that's the man who broke in yesterday," Tintin said warily.

The Captain looked the man up and down. "Well, I have a few things to say to him." He opened the car door and got out.

"Wait! Captain! Don't lose your temper!" Tintin got out and followed him.

The stranger flicked his cigarette butt away and took his hat off. He held it in his hands as they approached. "Can I help you?" the Captain asked suspiciously.

"I'm waiting for Mr Tintin," the man replied. He nodded at Tintin. "I have some information for you, Mr Tintin. But I'd prefer not to tell you here, on the street. Can we go somewhere a bit more private?"

"No," the Captain snapped.

"Inside," Tintin said. "The Captain comes with us, though."

"Of course," the man agreed. "I'm not here to look for trouble."

"Fair enough." Tintin opened the door to his building. His natural good manners made him step back and usher his guest in first.

They heard the screech of rubber as a car pulled onto the road. It was going far too fast for such a small residential area though. It slowed a little as it came closer and Tintin barely registered the passenger side window as it opened, and the muzzle of a gun appeared. The first shot sounded like a firework, or a car backfiring, and he ducked instantly. A second later he couldn't see anything as the Captain dropped down beside him, one warning arm curled around Tintin as though it would be enough to shield him from the staccato shots that were being fired off around them. The noise was everywhere, and deafening. When it finished, Snowy was yelping and barking furiously and the tires squealed loudly as the car took off.

"You alright?" the Captain asked when the noise disappeared and they could hear again.

"I think so." Tintin uncurled and looked around. "Captain! He's been shot!"

The man from the Old Street Market was barely standing. He was leaning heavily against the door jamb. The back of his jacket was covered in blooms of red, like bloody petals unfurling from a strange flower.

"_Bandits! Crooks! Gangsters!" _the Captain roared as he got shakily to his feet.

"Captain, help me!" Tintin cried. The stranger collapsed backwards. Tintin caught him and laid him as gently on the ground as was possible. "Call an ambulance."

"I'm on it."

"Take… take care," the man said. His hand clutched at the front of Tintin's jacket. "They… they'll kill you... too."

"Who will?" Tintin asked urgently.

The man tried to take a deep breath, but grimaced. "They…" he said, before closing his eyes tightly as a spasm of pain passed over him.

"Who?" Tintin urged. "Tell us!"

The man opened his eyes. His head lolled to one side and a small smile played on his lips. "There," he said. One hand pointed behind Tintin, who turned to see two small robins hopping hopefully around the pavement, plucking at crumbs and completely unperturbed.

"A robin? Birds?" Tintin asked, puzzled. He turned back but the man's eyes were closed.

"I think he's" – The Captain started.

Tintin felt for a pulse. "No, he's fainted. Help me put pressure on his wounds. Where the hell is that ambulance?"

**x**

Dark had fallen shortly afterwards. Now, a good few hours later, the Thompsons were waiting at the bus stop for their bus home.

"I can't wait to get home," Thomson said.

"Tell me about it," Thompson agreed. "Another day spent in the cold, watching for pickpockets."

"Might as well watch paint dry."

"Or grass grow." Thompson shook his head. "What is the world coming to?"

"I just don't know, my friend, I just don't know."

"Crimes everywhere."

"Lawlessness rampant."

"Our job is never done."

Thomson leaned forward and eyed the oncoming traffic. "Here's the bus."

"At last!" Thompson felt in his pocket for change for his fare. "Do you have enough change?"

"I'll just check." Thomson went to take his wallet out. He reached down into his inside pocket and felt a tug. He looked around. A man – a very respectable-looking older man – was standing staring at him. In his hand he held Thomson's wallet. The elastic had done its job, even though it was stretched out to its fullest. "Hey!" Thomson cried. "That's my wallet!"

"Oh!" The man let the wallet go. The elastic contracted and shot back, and the wallet hit Thomson full in the face, making him see stars. He held his nose and shouted wordlessly.

The man took off at a run, with Thompson on his heels. Surprisingly, considering his advanced years, the man was nimble and could run quite swiftly. "Stop! In the name of the law!" Thompson shouted as he tried to keep up. He stretched his arm out and made a grab for the running thief, and managed to grab a hold of the man's jacket. "Got you!" Thompson crowed, "and I ain't letting go, sunshine!"

The man remedied this by simply slipping his arms out of his jacket. The material billowed for a moment before slapping Thompson in the face, covering his eyes. The stranger picked up his pace and kept running while Thompson tried to do the same. He fought against the jacket, trying to pull it from his face, and hit a lamppost hard.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight – Wednesday**

* * *

It was a bright, crisp morning, so the Captain didn't bother driving. The weather would get colder when December came, and stay for a good few months: it was better to make the most of dry days as and when they came. He strolled along the streets, stopping off at a little shop to pick up some breakfast coffee and the morning newspaper. They'd ended up in the hospital the evening before, and had stayed there for a good two hours. When they were leaving, the man who had been shot outside Tintin's building was already in surgery but it hadn't looked good. He opened the newspaper and read the story about the incident as he walked.

_Shooting Drama! _the headline proclaimed. _An unknown man was shot dead yesterday evening in Labrador Road. As the man was about to enter number 26, three or four shots were fired from a passing car, which had slowed down opposite him. The victim was struck by three of the bullets, once in the region of the heart. He died without regaining consciousness._

"Very sad," the Captain muttered. Short and bitter, but thankfully the journalists had all managed to keep Tintin's involvement out of it. There would be no red flags raised when Emilie visited on Friday. He folded the newspaper up and stuck it under his arm as he reached Tintin's building. He headed inside, up the stairs and knocked on Tintin's door, which was opened quickly. He nodded to Tintin, who was on the phone, and held up the morning croissants.

"Of course I'll hold," Tintin said into the phone. "'Morning, Captain! Go through to the kitchen if you want. I'm just on the phone to the hospital."

"Is that about the dead man?" the Captain asked. "Very sad. Now we'll never know what he meant when he pointed to those birds."

"Dead man?" Tintin asked. "He's not dead."

"Says so in the newspaper." The Captain held the paper out to him.

"Oh, that's just – Hello?" Someone had obviously just answered the phone again, as Tintin quickly turned back to that conversation. "Is that the head surgeon? This is Tintin, the reporter. I'm calling about the man that was shot outside my house yesterday…. Uh-huh…. I see. How long will you keep him that way? … Right, ok. And is there any hope? … Just a little. Ok, thank you doctor. Have a good day." He hung up and shrugged as he put his phone down on the kitchen table. "There's coffee in the pot," he added to the Captain, who was still pouring over the newspaper.

"Definitely says here that he died," the Captain said.

"Yes, the papers were told that he died at once," Tintin agreed. "It just means that whoever shot him thinks that he's dead. The doctor said they were able to remove all the bullets, but he lost a lot of blood. They gave him a transfusion, but they had to put him in to a medically induced coma to give him time to heal. And in the meantime, whoever wanted him dead won't try again while he's so ill. Maybe they'll relax, and one day they'll get caught." He shrugged. "Anything could happen."

"Fair enough." The Captain put the croissants on a plate and placed that on the table. "And maybe this morning we'll actually get the chance to enjoy our" – he paused as Tintin's phone started to ring – "breakfast," he finished, as Tintin answered.

"Sorry, Captain, hold that thought. Hello? … Oh, Thomson! Good morning. How are y – …. Oh! … Really?" Tintin's face lit up in a huge smile. "You're kidding! Great! I'll be right there!" He hung up and stood up. "No time for breakfast, Captain! Quick, come with me!"

"Where are we going?" the Captain cried, dismayed.

"To the Thompsons: they've found my wallet!"

"So?"

"And the parchment from _La Licorne!" _

**x**

They found the Thompsons down at the police station. They were in a small room, with a black coat and a bundle of wallets spread out over a table. On the walls were street maps of Brussels, with hundreds of tiny, brightly coloured pins pushed into a small area around the city centre. The pickpockets were clearly only working one part of the city. Tintin pushed the door open and grinned at the two detectives. "Got something for me?" he asked.

"Happy Christmas," Thomson said, holding out a wallet. "I think you'll find that this is yours."

Tintin took it and opened it. "Got it!" he cried. He pulled the parchment out and showed it to the Captain.

"Let's have a look at that, then." The Captain took it and sat down on a chair, realising at the last moment that he was sitting on something hard and lumpy. He stood up and discreetly looked, and found that he had squashed a black bowler hat. He looked around slyly, but saw that nobody was paying any attention to him. Tintin was talking to the detectives.

"How did you manage to catch him?" he was asking.

"Catch him!" Thomson exchanged a look with Thompson. The Captain surreptitiously picked up the bowler hat and punched it back into shape.

"To be honest, we didn't catch him at all," Thompson said glumly. "We only caught his coat. See?" he gestured to the coat that lay on the table.

"That's a very expensive coat for a thief to wear," Tintin said. "I mean, I know we always see beggars wearing _Nike_, and most of the street kids wear better clothes than I do, but you don't really expect them to wear a tailored dress coat, do you?"

"Not really. And it doesn't really tell us anything about him."

"Other than he's a snappy dresser," the Captain quipped.

"Actually it does." Tintin opened the coat and examined the inside. "See these stitches here? They're temporary stitches used by a few of the older dry cleaners in the city. I'd say there's only a handful that still use them. See? They make a number. All you have to do is find out which dry cleaners still use these marks, and visit them. They should have a record of who owns this coat."

Thompson and Thomson looked at each other. "That's a damned good idea," Thomson said slowly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have some investigating to do."


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine – Thursday**

* * *

It rained hard throughout the night and for most of Thursday morning, but by the time the afternoon had come the skies had cleared and a tentative sun was attempting to brighten the city. Tintin opened the sitting room window to let some air into the flat. He'd been in his study all day, sorting through his old files and folders and old stories and tidying the whole place up, and now he was taking a break for a cup of coffee. The study was the last room left to put back to rights, and he'd kept it till last because he'd wanted to do it on his own.

The Captain was great, but there was some sensitive information in there – information about drug cartels and organized crime throughout Europe and parts of South America – that the Captain was better off not knowing about. At least, not yet anyway. With any luck there would be plenty of time to break the Captain in to Tintin's work and life gently, so as not to scare him.

Tintin checked his watch. Speaking of the Captain, he was coming over in an hour. Emilie had called that morning to set up an appointment with them for the next day, and the Captain was coming over to tell Tintin what time she was coming, and they were going to go over how they should act in order to convince her Tintin was still living there. He'd have to bring some stuff over to the Captain's flat, so that there were little clues around the place that made it look like it was home to a teenager too.

He waited for the kettle to boil, teasing Snowy with his foot. Soon, the dog was hanging on to the shoelace and growling. Tintin tried walking up and down, but almost got dragged off his feet and had to put an end to the game. He was dissuading Snowy from having another go by throwing his little squeaky toy fox into the sitting room, making the dog chase it. When the kettle had finally finished boiling for the second time (he'd forgotten all about it while he was playing with the dog, and had to boil it again when he'd remembered) he heard the sound of a van pulling up outside the building. Mildly nosy and a little bored, he wandered over and stuck his head out the window. Down below, a red van had parked itself right outside the door to the building. Mrs Finch wasn't going to like that.

True to expectations, the surprisingly deceptive landlady appeared seconds later. She looked sweet and innocent – just like a million other mild-looking ladies on the wrong side of middle-age, in countries all over the world – but just like them she had her little respectable ways and she stuck to them rigidly. "You'll have to move that van," she said promptly. Two men had gotten out of the van and were unloading what looked to be a heavy crate out of the back of it. "You're blocking my door," she added.

"We'll only be a second," one of the men replied as they struggled by her with their load. "It's just a delivery. Two minutes, tops."

"If you're not back in two minutes I'm calling the police."

"We'll be back," the second man snapped. "Save us a trip and tell us if Mr Tintin's in?"

Tintin pulled his head back inside and frowned. A delivery for him? He racked his brain, trying to remember if he had ordered anything off the internet recently, but he hadn't. He hadn't had the time to shop for anything. "You stay here, Snowy," he said as he left the sitting room. He closed the door in the dog's face. He could deal with the two delivery men quicker if Snowy wasn't barking and prancing around the place, showing off and making sure they knew who was boss.

He waited until he heard the two men on the other side of the door before opening it. They looked at him, surprised by his presence. "I heard you through the window," he explained. "What is it?" He nodded at the wooden crate. It was plain with a sticker on it that said "This Way Up", and an arrow pointing upwards.

"It's a new TV," one of the men said. He had a clipboard tucked under his arm, so Tintin stepped out into the hall and, assuming the clipboard meant authority, decided to deal with him directly. The second man stepped out of his way and let him pass.

"I haven't ordered anything," Tintin explained. "And certainly not a new TV. What company did you say you were with?"

"Allied Electrical," the man said smoothly. He shot a quick nod at his partner, who was standing behind Tintin. "Is this your signature?" He sidled beside Tintin and showed him the clipboard when it looked like Tintin was going to turn around.

Tintin looked down at the order form. It was pretty standard and had his name at the bottom. But it was signed 'Tintin', and that wasn't the name on his credit card. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but that's not my signature. You see, I" – A strong arm clamped around his chest and something was placed tightly over his mouth. He tried to shout, but when he opened his mouth he could taste cloth soaked in a foul-tasting liquid that burned his lips and tongue. His nose was filled with the curiously sweet-smelling scent of chloroform. He clawed at the hand on his face but the first delivery man seized both his wrists in one large, meaty hand and pulled them away, leaving him helpless. He tried not to breath, knowing that the sudden tiredness that gripped him was the chloroform starting to work, but his treacherous lungs forced his nose to take a deep breath. Still struggling against the arms and hands holding him, he tried to blink to clear his mind but when his eyes slid closed they stayed closed and then there was nothing.

**x**

Mrs Finch was savagely sweeping the path outside her house. As she swept she eyed the interloping van and thought dark thoughts. She had food on the stove, and she hoped it wasn't burning, but there was no way she was letting those two young rips get away with parking there for long. It made the place look so untidy, and it blocked off the nice façade of the building. She'd worked hard to keep those window sills and the doors and window frames painted and neat. She hated – _hated – _the idea that people were walking by, complete strangers that didn't know her, who she would never see again or meet in her life, _judging _her. _'Look at that place,' _they would say to each other, _'and look at how untidy it looks! I'm glad I don't live there, with cars and vans and the like parked all over the place!' _

She pursed her lips and shook her head. Oh no, they weren't going to say that about _her _house. No sir! She made up her mind and walked purposefully towards the front door, and had to step back in order to clear the way for the two men. They were still carrying that large box, she noticed. "I hope you're going to move that van now," she said.

"Yes," the lead man said. "We're going now."

"Something wrong?" She nodded at the delivery crate and sniffed, as though to imply that anything being delivered by two reprobates such as themselves was probably of inferior quality. Mrs Finch could say a lot with one of her sniffs.

"He hadn't ordered anything," the second man said. They slid the crate back into the van and got quickly into the cab.

Mrs Finch pulled some sarcasm out of the bag as they drove away. "Thank you!" she called after them. She shook her head again and went to go back inside. One glance around made her stop and check that her hair was neat and her cardigan was straight. That nice man, Mr Captain, was walking towards her. He was _such _a nice man. "Hello, Mr Captain," she said, fluttering her eyelids at him.

"Afternoon, Mrs Finch. Got something in your eye? That can be a tricky one," the Captain replied, oblivious. "Is Tintin home? Well, I ask, but I can hear Snowy barking…" He took a step back and craned his neck upwards. Snowy was at the window, his paws on the outside ledge. He was barking furiously.

"He's going to fall out," the Captain said. "Hey! Snowy! Get down, you idiot!"

The dog looked down and saw the familiar face, and the Captain watched his face change. It went from angry and confused to the pure clarity that accompanies a dog doing something incredibly stupid, simply because a familiar face has given it courage. Like that brief, heartbreaking moment before a Yorkshire terrier charges an Alsatian because it's just spotted its owner watching.

With a look of mild insanity on his face, Snowy jumped out of the window.

The Captain had known he was going to do it. Just a split second before it happened he'd known. _That dog is going to jump, _his brain said dreamily. _Don't be daft, _common sense had replied, but to no avail: he was already moving. He was under the window with his arms outstretched.

Snowy gave a loud grunt as he landed in the Captain's arms. Luckily the Captain was too surprised to tighten his grip. With a loud bark, Snowy had wriggled free and dove towards the ground. He hit it with an excited yelp and took off, chasing down the road after a red van that was just turning around the corner. Snowy turned the corner moments later and was gone from sight.

"What the hell?" the Captain asked. He turned back to Mrs Finch, who was standing watching with her mouth open, too surprised to give voice to her complaints about dogs and vans and opened windows.

"I don't know," she said, her face still showing her surprise. "Normally he doesn't leave his master's side."

"Has he ever run away before?"

"No, never!"

"And you say Tintin's in?" the Captain went into the house and she trailed after him.

"Yes," she said. "He hasn't gone out all day. When I saw him this morning getting his mail, he said he was waiting for you."

The Captain took the stairs two at a time, and by the time he'd reached Tintin's floor his phone was already in his hand. He'd learnt that quickly: respond to Tintin and you may need to call the emergency services. At the very least the police, and one day probably the undertaker.

The door to the flat was open. The Captain cautiously pushed it fully wide and went inside. "Tintin?" he asked uncertainly. The sitting room was empty: cold from the air coming in the open window. He went over and looked out, checking either end of the street before closing the window firmly.

"Tintin?" he called again. He checked the kitchen, the bathroom, the tiny office and finally the bedroom but the flat was empty. Tintin was gone. But Snowy had been inside on his own? That didn't sound right at all.

"Thundering typhoons!" The Captain wandered back out into the hall. Mrs Finch was hovering there, waiting for him.

"Well?" she asked nervously.

"He's gone," the Captain said flatly. He winced when he remembered something Tintin had said on Monday. "Blistering barnacles. Er, any chance we can keep the police out of this…?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten – Friday**

* * *

Tintin woke slowly. He opened his eyes, but regretted it at once and closed them quite quickly. His head thumped and his brain ached behind his eyes. He could feel his stomach churning and he had to swallow a few times to keep whatever was in his stomach firmly down. That was, he thought, the worst part of chloroform: the magnificent hang-over that was a million times worse than any other hang-over. It was, in fact, the God of Hangovers.

He groaned and tested his limbs. His left leg still moved, that was for sure. He stuck it out and tested the air tentatively, like a baby deer sniffing for hunters. It was significantly colder than the rest of him, so he pulled it back in and realised he was under something.

He opened his eyes again and saw there was a blanket over him. This curious fact made him sit up with a louder groan and take a good look around.

He was… in a place. That was as far as his brain could work on that puzzle though, at least for now. It was darkish, but only because the lights were out. It was also made of stone, and had tall stone columns reaching up to what looked to be a vaulted ceiling. It was a proper vaulted ceiling too: it had the look of authenticity about it, as though it was old and had been built long ago when builders knew what they were doing. In fact, it looked remarkably like a cellar of some sort. It was definitely cold enough to be a cellar. Long, thin windows, the glass covered in old grime and streaks of dirt, were set very high up into the walls, and managed to shed as little light as possible.

He was lying on a make-shift bed near one of the walls. He struggled out of the warm blankets and made his way to his feet unsteadily. He looked around, wondering where the hell he was, and started to search for a way out. He wandered among the columns aimlessly, searching the walls for any sign of a door.

"Boo," said a voice. It wasn't a loud shout but it still made Tintin jump. He stopped short and looked around. It had sounded as though the voice had come from further ahead.

"Who's there?" he called cautiously.

"Come closer," the voice answered.

Tintin took a step or two closer to where he thought the voice was coming from. "Who are you?"

"I… am the ghost of the captain of _The Unicorn!" _A burst of mocking laughter accompanied these words and Tintin ducked behind a column. _There's no such thing as ghosts! _his rational brain told him.

_But do the ghosts know that? _his illogical imagination asked casually.

The laughter continued and Tintin risked a peek around the column. As far as he could tell, both the laughter and the voice sounded a bit too smug to be other-worldly. It sounded more like the voice of a cynical banker.

"Don't be afraid," the voice said mockingly. "Come closer to the door."

_Door? _Well, that interested Tintin. Where there was a door there was a way out, and at the moment it looked like he was very much a prisoner. He made his way cautiously towards the voice and saw a glint of steel in the gloom. There was a door, but it was made of iron and it was securely locked. He tested the handle anyway and spotted the thin chequered grill of a speaker set in the stonework beside it.

Well, that explained how he could hear the voice, and the camera secured to the column closest to the door explained how they could see him. It was turning slowly from side to side, surveying everything in the room over a period of a few minutes. He filed this away for future reference.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want with me?"

"You must allow me to remain anonymous," the voice answered smugly. "And of course, you know why I had you kidnapped."

"No, I don't," Tintin said honestly. "I have no idea what's going on."

"You stole two pieces of parchment from me," the voice declared. "I don't know how you managed it, but you did. Now, there's three parchments all together, as you well know, and I have one: the one I had taken off you when you were brought here. I want you to tell me where you've hidden the other two. If you tell me what I want to know, I'll let you go. Alive. If you don't, well… Believe me, Tintin, I know a lot of ways to make you talk before you beg me for death. Do you understand?"

"I don't have your parchment!" Tintin cried. "I only ever had one. I haven't even _seen_ the other ones. I have don't know what was on them."

"Lying is bad for the soul, Mr Tintin," the voice said pleasantly. "You should tell the truth."

"I _am _telling the truth!" Tintin insisted. "If you have my parchment, then I honestly don't know where any of them are!"

"I'm going to give you some time to reconsider," the voice continued. "Two hours, I think. Then I shall ask you again. If you lie to me again, you will pay for it. Think hard, Mr Tintin."

The speaker went dead. Tintin stared at it. "But I don't know anything," he said. The speaker stayed silent, and he knew he man wasn't listening to him any more. Well, one thing was for sure: he had to find a way out of here. In two hours he had to be long gone.

**x**

Snowy had walked for a very long time. Maybe even a week or more. He didn't know: dogs had a limited understanding of time. As far as he knew, time had passed and he was still on his own. And he was muddy. It had rained when it had gotten dark, so he'd had to find a place to curl up in. Unfortunately, the hole had contained a lot of mud and a rather irritable badger. Snowy had asserted his dominance and left, in case the badger got really angry, and had found a hedge to sleep under instead.

Now he was awake and walking again. He was very hungry but he discovered that drinking puddles kept his belly full, so he did that whenever he could remember to do so.

The rain was coming down harder. To dogs, this isn't much of an obstacle. It wasn't nice, granted, but Snowy was used to such weather and the urge to keep moving was stronger than the urge to stop and go home. There wasn't any home to go to: Tintin was somewhere else. Until Snowy found him, home was lost.

Something had happened. He wasn't sure what it was, and he hadn't quite figured out how Old Mrs Gustav's cat fitted in, but he had no doubt that the yowling beast was somehow behind it. Or maybe even that bulldog from down the road. One minute Snowy was playing with Roxy Foxy and then Tintin was gone. His voice had gone quiet and footsteps had walked away from the flat. Tintin hadn't come back.

Snowy had done the logical thing and jumped out the window. Luckily, the big bearded man was under it and had caught him. After that, it had simply been a matter of keeping his nose to the ground and walking, and Snowy was a champion at that.

Ahead, a large growling thing that looked like the thing the big bearded man and Tintin sometimes sat in came towards him. Snowy knew from experience that the large growling things, also called 'cars', didn't want to make friends, so he moved to the side of the road and took it as an opportunity to mark a nice-smelling tree as his own. He shook himself to get some of the rain off his coat.

The large growling thing went by at a very fast speed. Snowy barked at it out of habit, and regretted it at once. The large growling thing had just thrown mud at him! Snowy blinked in surprise and decided that anything that threw mud in such a sly way wasn't worth dealing with. He shook his head and trotted on.

**x**

A while later – maybe a few years later, maybe a few seconds – the rain stopped and Snowy smelt different water. He could hear it too, gurgling alongside the road. There were lots of trees now, and Snowy had done his best to mark them all but there were just too many and he'd run out of wee. The mud the large growling thing had thrown at him was starting to harden and tug at the hair along his nose and ears. It wasn't nice, and Tintin wasn't on hand with a piece of kitchen towel to wipe it off, so Snowy would have to do his best.

He cut through the trees and made his way to the water. Is was a long watery thing that had hard rocks sticking out of it. It wasn't very deep, but it was very inviting looking. Snowy jumped in and splashed about a bit. He took a couple of gulps of this clean, nice water before getting back out, shaking himself off and trotting back to the road. It felt nice to be clean again, and now his nose was clear he could smell more. The Smell he was following was metallic and oily and looked green in the strange world of dogs' noses. It was still here, but faint now: it had almost been washed away by the rain. But Snowy trusted his Nose. It had never let him down yet. He dutifully sniffed the air and allowed Nose to lead him up the road.

Another large growling thing appeared. Again, Snowy hustled himself to the verge and let it go by. This time he remembered his manners and didn't bark at it. As far as he was concerned they were but two ships passing in the night. Or at least, one dog and one large growling thing passing in the morning light.

Which was why he was _very _surprised when it threw another handful of mud in his face.

**x**

Tintin stood behind a column, out of the gaze of the inscrutable camera, and considered his options. He knew that he had no answers to give to whoever had kidnapped him. No matter what happened, he wouldn't be able to tell them what they wanted. But that sort of thing never stopped criminals before: they could keep torturing him for as long as they liked – until he broke. But even if he did break, he still wouldn't be able to tell them what they wanted to know, so they would just start again. And he had a sinking feeling that wherever they were, they were isolated. Nobody would hear his screams.

He had been staring at a large beam of wood for the last few minutes as he worked it all out in his head. He didn't even have an educated guess at where the two missing pieces of parchment were. The best he could figure was that the same thing had happened to him: they had been stolen by a pickpocket. If he had been stupid enough to put his piece in his wallet, who was to say that the man who had kidnapped him hadn't done the same? If that was the case then there was very little chance of getting the parchments back. Tintin getting his back was pure fluke: how many pickpockets were working the Christmas crowds in the city? Too many, judging by the placement of the pins in the Thompsons' map.

No, the parchments were gone: taken out of the equation. So he had no idea where he was or who had taken him, or how to get free. He didn't have what they wanted and had no way of getting what they wanted. What he did have, in fact, was the clothes he was wearing – a light t-shirt and a pair of jeans – and a large beam of wood that looked very heavy.

He couldn't stop looking at the wood. It was long and rectangular, and looked like a battering ram. He came out from behind the column, ignoring the camera, and went to the wood. He rubbed his hands against his jeans to get rid of the sweat that had pooled there and tried to lift it.

He strained against its weight, but it was no good: it was too heavy for him to lift by himself. He sat down on it, frustrated, and went back to thinking. There had to be a way out of here. He sighed and sat back, his eyes trained on the ceiling. His brain whirled, turning the problem over and over and prying at it, searching for a weak point he could exploit.

They weren't expecting him to do anything. That was their problem – that was _always _their problem, no matter who the 'they' were. They locked people up and bullied them, and then acted surprised when their victims hit back at them. It was as though they thought that their victims didn't have the right to fight back, as though it was bad sport for their victim to break free and escape.

They wouldn't expect him to use the wood as a battering ram… And they probably weren't expecting him to use their prison against them. High up on the ceiling a little black metal ring had caught his eye. It hung there, lonely and dusty and almost begging for company. Once, it had probably held an impressive light fixture.

He wondered if it would hold a beam of wood.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Slight change from the book here. In the book, whoever is speaking to Tintin through the speaker (Max or his brother) says that they stole Tintin's parchment from his wallet when they had his flat searched. That can't be the case because the parchment wasn't found until the day after the flat was searched, and it was found by Tintin. Therefore, logically, they must have taken it off his body - or out of his wallet - when he was unconscious.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter rated T for some mild swearing**

**Eleven**

* * *

He thought he had it worked out now. It was just a matter of simple logistics. All he had to do was make sure it worked. He figured he'd have a set amount of time before drawing their attention to his efforts. If he worked quickly, he could be free before they had a chance to stop him.

Keeping behind the avenue of stone columns, Tintin made his way towards the slowly rotating camera. He held a pillowcase behind his back. It was _so _thoughtful of his captors to provide him with civilised bedding. It seemed a shame not to use it.

**x**

Marlinspike House was a beautiful manor house set in sprawling acres of woodlands and meadows. To the north there was a river, which bordered the lands behind the Hall and cut it off from its closest neighbour. The Hall itself had been built centuries ago by one Francois du Sart-Mulan, the man who had founded and funded the building of the near-by small village that still bore his name: Moulinsart. Though the Hall had been built by a member of the then-royal family of France, it had passed from royalty several centuries ago when the then-king, Louis the XIV, made a gift of it to a loyal servant.

Since then, it had remained in one family for barely two generations before it was sold off and began a steady journey of being passed from private buyer to private buyer. Although it was historically significant the state didn't want it so now it was the grand home and offices of two English brothers who were antique dealers and owned shops all over Europe. Their names were Maxwell and Gustav Bird, also known as Max and Gus.

Max was the shorter of the two and the unspoken leader. He was marginally cleverer, in a more twisted sort of way, and had some charisma that was usually mistaken for shameless self-promotion by the plebeians. Gus, the younger yet taller of the two, was quieter and preferred to let Max have his own way. He would probably never admit it but Max scared him. It was easier to let Max have his own way because standing against him could be dangerous. It was this threat of potential danger that led him to choose his next words carefully.

"There's no percentage in killing him," he said. If Max understood anything it was money.

"So what do you want to do? Ransom him back?" Max leaned back and played idly with the letter opener. It was shiny steel and shaped like an Aztec sacrificial knife. Usually, such a thing wouldn't be that dangerous – the blades of letter openers were dull and thick – but this was Max's letter opener, and he had sharpened it until it gleamed and cut like a scalpel.

"It could work. He's a famous reporter: someone would pay for him. His newspaper?"

"He's freelance."

"His family?"

"As far as I can tell, he doesn't have any. And his friends are all poor. Besides, it's a messy business and anything could go wrong. We should just kill him as soon as he gives us the information and be done with it."

"Why not just let him go?" Gus asked, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. He had been the one to oversee Tintin's internment in the cellar: the 'man' they'd placed down there was barely more than a boy.

"Because," Max said patiently, as though he were explaining a simple concept to an idiot, "he could tell someone. He could lead them to us. And once we have all three scrolls I don't want to go to jail. I want to find this stupid treasure and become fabulously wealthy. Christ above, Gus, we've worked for this for _years. _It's been almost ten years!"

Ten years. Ten years since they'd found that stupid model ship in the attic of a house in Bristol. Gus wished they'd never found it. And he really wished he hadn't knocked the damn thing over. But most of all, he really, _really _wished his brother wasn't so bloody obsessed by the idea of hidden treasure. It consumed him. He knew the story and legends of the _Unicorn_ backwards and forwards, and one time he'd actually repeated some of the story in his sleep.

He knew where historical fact said the ship had gone down. He knew that a small coastal tribe in Algeria swore that they were bedevilled by a ghost ship that brought bad luck, who had described the Unicorn in all but name. He'd dragged Gus half-way around the world and explored the stretch of coast where the ship was said to sail, just in case historical fact was wrong and the ship had gone down there.

They'd found nothing. They _always _found nothing.

But now they'd found something and Max wouldn't let it go.

"But he didn't see our faces," Gus pointed out. "If we let him go – drive him out into the middle of nowhere and let him make his own way home – he can't lead us back here."

"He saw the faces of the men who took him," Max said after a short pause. "He could lead the police to them, and they could lead the police to us."

Gus searched Max's face. His brother looked honest and sincere but Gus couldn't shake the feeling – the knowledge – that the men who had taken Tintin from his flat were already dead. Max wouldn't have let them live, not with what they knew. Not after Barnaby.

Max smiled, and Gus knew. The men were dead and there was no point in arguing.

Max stood up and moved to the window. He stood with his arms behind his back as he surveyed the vast estate of Marlinspike. He claimed that living here invigorated him; renewed his energy. Gus just thought it was ghoulish. "My dear brother, look around us. Tell me what you see."

Gus joined his brother at the window and looked out. "Brutus taking a shit?" he offered. The Boxer they had trained as a guard dog was hunched over on the carefully sculpted lawn, leaving a little gift for their butler, Nestor.

Max stared at him witheringly. "If you weren't so damned literal you would see opportunity. Possibilities. _Hope. _Tintin has to die, you know that. I'm not going to prison over this. There's been too many mistakes already." He turned away, agitated. "I haven't got this far just to give up now, and I'm not letting that little brat take this away from me." He went back to his desk and sat back down, pulling his correspondence towards him. He started to open envelopes as though the conversation was over.

"He's a _child," _Gus tried desperately. "He looks about sixteen! You can't kill a kid that young. What sort of man does that?"

Max looked up sharply. "And what sort of man kidnaps a child and puts him in a cellar? What sort of a man tortures a child that age for information? Do you know what they do to men like that? Men who do that sort of thing? Do you know what they do to men like _us _in jail? Is that what you want? To wake up in your six by eight cell every day, isolated because they can't put you in with the general population? Checking your food for glass? Watching your back in the exercise yard? And what about the showers, eh?"

Gus grimaced. People who committed crimes against children didn't survive long in prison. He shrugged and turned away. "You do it, then."

"Fine!" Max didn't sound as though it would be a hardship at all. In fact, he started to hum and went back to his letters. "Oh, and go over the inventory for the Paris shop, will you?" he said suddenly. "I think Pierre has been dicking around with the stock."

Gus went to his own desk and opened the red ledger that said 'Paris' on the cover in thick gold letters. He stared at the columns and names and numbers and wished he could empty his mind as easily as his brother was able to. He shook his head and concentrated harder, refusing even to look up. At his desk, Max was frowning as he read through a bank statement. He was completely absorbed.

Above their heads, the monitor on the wall went black and the image of the cellar disappeared.

**x**

Tintin shimmied carefully down from the pillar. He didn't think anyone had seen him put the pillowcase over the camera, but when they noticed it would draw them down here at once. He had to be gone by then. At the door, he'd already broken the grill over the speaker and pushed a folded scrap of blanket in, to muffle any noise he made. He was ready to try his escape plan now and he only had one shot at it. If it was to work he had to be fast and accurate, and everything _had _to go perfectly.

There was a part of the wall, to the right of the cellar, where a small draught came in. Part of the brickwork there was cracked too, and the mortar was starting to crumble a little. He'd checked and rechecked the whole of the cellar as much as he could, given the amount of time he had left, and the wall certainly seemed to be weakest there. He was sure he could knock a hole in the wall there, if only he could move the huge beam of wood.

Which was where the iron ring came in.

He grabbed the blankets from the make-shift bed and started to tear them into rough strips. These strips he tied together to make a longer rope. He then laid this on the ground beside the beam of wood and, with a soft grunt, he rolled the wood over until it was on top of the rope, which he then tied around it, knotting it securely. Once that was done he slung the rope around his shoulders and started to pull, dragging the wood along the stone floor until it was under the iron ring.

Humming softly to himself and trying to ignore the time, he sat down on the beam and took off his running shoes. Fingers moving nimbly, he quickly took the shoelace out and tied it to a good-sized stone he'd found in one of the corners of the room during his reconnaissance. He tied the other end of the shoelace to the blanket and stood up. Taking careful aim, he tossed the stone up. It took three goes, but finally it sailed through the iron ring and he was able to pull the blanket after it. He re-laced his shoe again, spat on his hands, and started to pull.

Steadily, the beam rose into the air, suspended lopsidedly by the rope of blankets. When it had reached waist height, Tintin tied the loose end of rope to the beam and stood back.

Everything was holding; so far so good.

He got behind the beam and braced himself. He gave a cautious push. The wood smacked against the brick with a loud noise. Small scatterings of dust and crumbling mortar cascaded lightly to the ground, but it wasn't enough to crack it or break it. He pulled the beam back fully, and battered the wall with all his might.

**x**

Gus looked up at last. Max was staring at him, puzzled. "Did you feel that?" Gus asked, already knowing that his brother had. Max nodded at him.

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

Max shrugged. "Could be Tintin. We can always hope that he's come to his senses and decided to tell us the truth."

_And I bet you're disappointed that you won't get a chance to torture him. _The rogue thought almost made its way out of his mouth before Gustav had the presence of mind to swallow it. He smiled weakly and turned around to check the security monitor. "Oh. Um, Max?" he said nervously. "I think we have a problem."

"So I see…"

**x**

The crack had spread quickly. Now it was more like the topographical map of a river basin, with long, thin tributaries spread through the grey brick. If he had time, he could probably just knock the bricks through with his own hands, but the noise he'd just been making would have alerted them by now. He took a deep breath and _pushed, _almost running at the wall himself. As it was he took a good two steps forward as the heavy beam swung, unstoppable and formidable, towards the wall.

The beam kept going. It disappeared into the cloud of dust and fine grit as the bricks finally gave way and part of the wall collapsed. When the debris had cleared, he could see a good sized hole. He could easily crawl through. He just hoped there was another door on that side of the wall, otherwise it would be for nothing.

He got down on his hunkers and peered through, coughing a little as the air-born detritus got into his eyes and was breathed into his lungs. He could see… crap? A long corridor filled to the gills with _stuff, _just random, numerous _things. _A soft, melodic tune floated out of the gloom and he crawled through, searching for the source of the noise. A wooden cabinet, its back busted into a ragged hole by the force of his battering ram, lay on its front. On the ground before it lay a small wooden box, open from its fall. A moth-eaten, forlorn-looking robin twittered mechanically.

"A music box?" Tintin wondered. He crawled through fully and examined it. "What on earth?"

"_There!" _

The shout startled him. He looked over his shoulder to see two men in the cellar behind him. They were both quite tall, with one taller than the other, and they were both wearing nice suits. They looked like respectable accountants or businessmen, other than the fact that one also had a gun.

And they were shouting at him as they ran towards him.

_Eat my dust, gentlemen! _

Tintin scrambled to his feet and took off, ducking into the new corridor.

"Get after him!" Max howled. "Find him!"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter rated T for mild swearing**

**Twelve**

* * *

Max was through the hole first, with Gus scrabbling at the broken bricks behind him. They had bricked up this side of the cellar because most of the things they were storing here were crap: they'd be able to sell them at a car boot sale, perhaps, but no respectable antiques collector would bother with any of it: the vases were too cracked to be restored properly; the paintings were too badly damaged or just plain terrible; every cabinet and dresser was filled with woodworm; and everything else was just slightly crap or rusting.

It was also dead silent. Nothing moved, and the heavy silence settled on them like a blanket. Max looked around the corridor as Gus managed to get to his feet. "There's a lot of hiding places," he murmured. "Be on your guard."

"Where is he?" Gus hissed.

"Just keep your eyes open."

They crept forward, scanning the clutter as carefully as they could. Most of the junk was heaped, with larger stuff at the back against the stone walls and smaller objects propped against anything that stood still for long enough. An old mirror with a gilt-ish frame stood at a crazy angle. In front of it, a blank-eyed plaster bust shared space with an old, rusted suit of armour.

Gus grabbed Max by the arm, making his brother jump. He pointed at the suit of armour. "I think it moved!" he whispered. "Look!"

They held their breaths and watched the armour. Did the arm move slightly? Did the head turn marginally? Was that noise the sound of a draught or was it the sound of someone gently breathing? Max levelled the gun at the armour.

"Ok," he said. "We've found you."

Tintin's eyes widened.

"It was a game try," Max continued, "but you're caught. Come on out now."

Tintin didn't move. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

"Oh, so that's how you want it," Max said, his irritation coming to the fore. "I'm going to count to three. One. Two. Three. Fine!" He pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the armour and ricocheted away, striking a gong a few feet away, right above Tintin's head. He ducked down further into his hiding place, his almost-silent gasp covered completely by the sound of the suit of armour falling over and hitting the stone floor. It took a while for the clangs and echoes to die away, but when silence descended on them again, Max shot Gus a withering look.

"A suit of armour?" he said pointedly. "What is this? A bloody cartoon? Jesus, you're an idiot sometimes. Come on, and keep your eyes open this time."

Tintin risked raising his head again. He was behind them: there had been a small opening between some poorly-stacked chairs and an old chest that had slipped off a dresser. He'd managed to squeeze into it and was hidden behind the dresser. From where he was, he could see the backs of the two men as they disappeared into the gloom ahead of them.

He was close to the hole. He glanced at it. If he was quiet enough, he might be able to slip back out that way. He doubted very much if there was another way out down there; not from this room anyway. He carefully crawled along his little hollow and poked his head out, searching the flickering shadows for any sign of his captors, but they were out of sight. Their bickering had even died away to a low growl. He stood up and started to tiptoe back towards the hole, making sure to keep watch for them over his shoulder. Then, suddenly: cacophony.

A bell rang: the slow, ponderous tolling of an old clock. This was joined a split second later by the mechanical call of a cuckoo clock. In half a minute every clock stored in that corridor started to chime the hour and the air was filled with heavy clangs and light tinkling bells. He quickly ducked down and waited until the annoyed shouts of the men had died away. From the sounds of it, one of the men was getting spooked. Tintin smiled: nerves had a way of spreading. It was the best part of watching horror films with friends. The noise died as slowly as it started, with some of the clocks giving up before others.

Eventually, though, everything stopped and not even the ticking could be heard over the smothering silence. It was like a morgue; or the burial place for elderly tat that had been passed over by more discerning relatives. When he was sure that the two men were continuing on, Tintin slowly stood up and continued creeping back towards the hole in the wall. Still trying to keep an eye on the two men behind him, he didn't notice when his foot caught in the frayed rope of an old painting that was propped beside a tall stool. It pulled on his ankle and the picture tipped forward, the sharp point of one corner snagging on the worn rungs of stool. The stool wobbled – and so did the large blue vase that stood on top of it.

Tintin quickly grabbed the vase as it toppled forwards. It was heavy, but he managed to wedge it between his chest and the stool. If he was careful, he could quietly tip it back into its original pla –

_BOYOYOYNGGGGGGG! _

The vase's lid had fallen off, and landed slap-bang in the middle of what looked to be an old ceremonial drum on a tarnished brass stand. He heard the shouts of the two men, dropped the vase and ran for it.

"_That's him!" _came the shout. _"We've got him! Hurry!" _

Tintin ducked behind a pillar but they were too close to find another hiding place. Besides, now they knew roughly where he was they would tear the place apart to find him, and if they found him things didn't look hopeful. He had doubts to begin with, that they would let him go, but now that he'd seen their faces he knew that they would rather kill him than let him go free.

Well, adrenaline was fun too, right?

He came out from behind the pillar, surprising them, and ran for the hole. A second later a china plate, that had been sitting in a decorative stand on an old trunk, shattered as a bullet hit it. Tintin ducked his head and kept going, putting on a burst of speed.

_Cartoon! _

He paused, slid to a stop, and grabbed what looked to be an ancient abacus that was standing behind a tall, square-bodied green vase. Raising it over his head, he brought it down and smashed it against the stone floor. The old wood disintegrated at once, scattering hard wooden beads all over the place. It was a pastiche, but it was true: round things made you fall. Tintin had learned this from all the times Snowy had left his ball right behind Tintin's foot. Tintin would step backwards onto the ball, fall arse-over-tit and end up lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, groaning and asking; "Why, Snowy? Why?" in a plaintive voice.

Dodging the beads on his side of the spill, Tintin turned and ran on, enjoying the sounds of people falling and shouting behind him as the men reached the beads and slipped on them. He was through the hole before they regained their footing, and sprinted full-out for the door. Before they could pull themselves together he was through it and had locked it behind him. Now it was their turn to try and find a way out of that place. If they were as resourceful as he was they would have no problem, but that wasn't his main concern.

The room he was in now was tiny, and contained only a spiral staircase. Cautiously he went upwards until he was met with another door. This one was wooden, and opened easily into a light, airy corridor with a great many doors set into the walls. Away to his left was what looked to be the front door, but that could wait for now. Most of the doors around him were closed, but one was open and when he glanced into the room beyond he could see that it was set up as a sort of office, with two desks piled high with paperwork. And, most importantly, a phone!

He went to it at once. Beside it, on the expensive green leather, were a few opened envelopes and a very sharp letter opener. He picked up one of the letters and read the address with interest: _Messrs M & G Bird, Marlinspike Hall, Moulinsart, Belgium. _

Birds, not robins: birds. The man who had been shot had been trying to give them the name of his attackers: the Misters Bird. Well, now he had names to go with their faces and, more importantly, he knew exactly where he was. He picked up the phone and quickly dialled the Captain. The phone was answered on the second ring.

"_If that's you, Frankie, you can go to hell!" _The Captain's voice said at once. He sounded annoyed, and to Tintin it was the finest sound in the world.

"Captain!" he exclaimed. "Captain, is that you?"

"_Eh? What's that? Frankie? Is that you?"_

"No, it's Tintin, Captain."

"_What's that? The line's very bad. Say again?"_

Tintin raised his voice. "It's Tintin, Captain! _Tintin!" _

"_Tintin?" _He could hear the relief in the Captain's voice. _"Thundering typhoons! Where the hell are you?" _

"I'm in Marlinspike Hall, Captain. Can you hear me?"

"Excuse me?" The voice that spoke had a refined English accent. Tintin turned to see a tall, balding man wearing a crisp white butler's jacket in the doorway. He stared at Tintin inquisitively, one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised in a question. "Can I help you?" the strange man continued.

Tintin looked around, and said the first thing that came into his head. "I'm Mr Bird's new secretary," he replied, rearranging his face into an expression of supreme, soapy innocence.

The butler glanced at Tintin's slightly dishevelled clothing but said nothing: it was the mark of a good butler to ignore the fact that Gus Bird sometimes brought very young gentlemen back to the house at odd hours. Although usually he was discrete enough not to do it during the middle of the day. "Very good, sir," he said.

"_Nestor!" _

Tintin winced. The men in the cellar had clearly discovered his superficial damage to their surveillance equipment. On the wall, the monitor now showed a tall man waving his arms in distress while the other must have pulled the scrap of blanket from the grill of the speaker.

"_Nestor!" _the voice continued. _"The house has been broken into! If you can hear us, don't let him get away!" _

Nestor, the butler, raised both eyebrows at Tintin and started towards him purposefully.

"Uh, Captain, can you still hear me?" Tintin put the phone back to his ear and stepped back a few paces, putting the desk between himself and the approaching butler.

"_Tintin? Are you there?" _the Captain asked, his voice worried. _"Where are you?" _

"I'm in Marlinspike," Tintin said, ducking away from Nestor's grasp. "Call the police!"

"_You're in Greece? What the flaming hell are you doing there!"_

"No, not Greece! The Police! Call the police! I'm in Marlinspike Hall, Captain, Marlinspike!"

"_Starlings bite? What are you talking about?"_

"Marlinspike Hall! Marlin-spike!" Nestor grabbed Tintin and tried to wrench the phone from his hand. Tintin held it away and shouted as loud as he could.

"_Martin's bike?" _he heard the Captain ask, completely confused at this point.

"Marlinspike Hall! For the love of God, Captain, open your ears! Marlinspike Hall!" At this point, Nestor gave a tremendous pull and they both toppled over, yanking the body of the phone off the desk as the wire stretched to its fullest. The black, antique bakelite body landed heavily on Nestor's head. Tintin got to his feet quickly and backed off a little, putting some distance between himself and the butler. "Can you hear me? Marlinspike Hall! It's in Moulinsart. Hello? Hello?"

Nestor grabbed the body of the phone and disconnected the call. He opened his mouth and started to shout. _"Help! Help! He's in here! Help!" _

"Oh, shut up!" Tintin clubbed him over the head with the phone before trying to get a line out again, but there was no use: the phone was an antique, like most things in the house, and the rough-housing had been too much for it. It was now completely broken. "Well, that's torn it!" He tossed the phone aside and ran for the door. It opened just as his hand reached the handle.

It swung open and he ducked behind it, almost getting hit by the heavy wood. But at least it blocked him from the view of the two men who had entered the room at a run. "Where is he?" the shorter of the two barked. He still held the gun firmly in his hand.

On the ground, Nestor groaned and held his head. "He was here," he said weakly.

Max glanced at the desk. "Did he use the phone? Who did he get?"

"He got me!" Nestor pointed to the lump that was rising on his head and gratefully accepted Gus's help to stand up.

Behind the door, Tintin winced and carefully swung it away from himself. There was nothing else he could do: he had to sneak out now while they were busy with the butler. He was almost out when Gus looked up.

"There!"

Tintin ran for it, narrowly missed by a bullet that whizzed by his shoulder. He turned right and ran for the front door. He would have to do his best to put some space between himself and his captors. With no way of contacting the Captain again, he was firmly on his own.


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

* * *

The front door opened onto a magnificent landscape. Right in front of the house, down the set of tall stone steps, was a small square that had been gravelled. A driveway led away straight ahead, and on either side of it were trees; lots and lots of trees. Instead of making for the driveway, where he would be too visible, Tintin headed for the trees and ducked into what appeared to be a private wood. Two more gunshots sounded, but they missed him completely, knocking bark from trees that blocked him from view. In a few minutes, the only thing he could hear was his own footsteps heavy on the crackling, winter brush of the forest floor, and his own breath dragged from his throat.

He had no idea where he was going.

The driveway seemed to be quite long though: he hadn't seen a gate at the end of it. He hadn't seen anything at the end of it: it had disappeared into trees. But if he headed in one direction, he would eventually reach the end of the trees or perhaps a wall he could climb over. Once he was outside of this place he stood a fighting chance. And if he was near a road he was golden: he could flag someone down and get them to take him to the village. Once there, he could find the police station and explain what had happened.

He slowed down and, still panting, bent over and clutched his knees. He had a stitch now, and his heart was hammering painfully in his chest. When he had caught his breath again he walked on, slower now and moving more carefully. He watched where he put his feet, trying to make as little noise as possible. The forest was as quiet as the grave. He couldn't hear the sounds of pursuit, but that didn't mean they weren't coming after them. They'd _have _to come after him, he knew it for a fact. Not only had he seen their faces but he knew their names and where they lived. And people who lived in a grand old house like Marlinspike Hall weren't the sort of people who could disappear in the middle of the night and leave no trace. They would need time to close up their businesses and sell the house, and a house like that would leave a paper trail for the police to follow. No, their best bet now was to kill him and get rid of the body, so _his_ best bet was to get the hell out of there before they could find him.

In the distance, a bird called. He didn't know what it was, but it sounded large. A crane, perhaps? Was it the time of year for them? He didn't know, and right now he didn't care much either. Something snapped in the undergrowth to his left. He ducked behind a tree and waited. After a few seconds, a bush rustled as something small and hopefully furry and non-threatening ran off. He breathed out and continued on, his ears ringing from listening so intently to the silence around him. Forests and woods had a way of dampening sound; reducing it and turning it into a place of almost-isolation. He doubted he'd hear the road until he came closer to it.

Behind him, a large dog started to bark. He froze and listened. It was a far-away bark, but it was the bark of something _big, _like a Boxer or an Alsatian. It could even be a Rottweiler for all he knew. He really, _really _hoped it wasn't a Rotty. There was no way of stopping a Rottweiler in full attack mode. Alsatians weren't killers by nature, and Boxers had a flat skull that could be broken easily with one good punch, but the only thing that stopped a charging Rottweiler was a well-aimed gun, or perhaps a tank.

The barking was getting closer. He couldn't stay here. He needed a place to hide.

**x**

"Go on, Brutus, good boy!" Gus held the dog while Max followed, still holding the gun. Brutus, a large brown Boxer with cropped ears to go with his docked tail – a practise that was banned by almost every country in Europe – had his flat face to the ground and was snuffling along happily. Boxers were used and bred for hunting: their faces were wrinkled to allow the blood from their kill to run down to the ground without getting in their eyes. Brutus had been trained as a guard dog as well as a hunter. If there was a trail to find, he would find it.

He raised his head and sniffed the air cautiously before dragging Gus along, his powerful muscles bunching with the strain of forcing the human to keep up with him. Boxers might look ungainly and clumsy, but they were damned fast when they wanted to be. They had to be: they were used to take down deer and elk and boars; fast moving, large, wild animals.

"Seek him, Brutus, seek him!" Gus called, trying to control the dog. Brutus wheezed against the collar and lead that held him. As he got more and more excited he became louder and louder, until he was grunting and panting hoarsely with excitement. Gus looked over his shoulder at his brother. "Aren't you glad we got him trained?" he said smugly.

"Watch where you're going!" Max snapped.

Ahead, Brutus had paused for a fraction of a second before uttering a loud bark and lunging forward. The force of the dog pulled Gus from his feet. He fell heavily to the ground, letting go of the lead. The dog was free! For one second a look of idiotic happiness crossed Brutus's face before he took to his heels and ran for it, following the strange scent.

Hearing the sound of the heavy dog breaking branches and trampling small hedges, Tintin put his head down and ran too. He had to find a place to hide, and he had to find it now! But he knew from experience that he didn't stand a chance against a determined dog. He could break the scent with water but there was none around, and if he climbed a tree he would just be a sitting duck for his pursuers. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw a huge, brown-coloured Boxer galloping after him, his long legs seemingly everywhere. Damn, those dogs were fast!

He jumped a fallen tree trunk, knowing it would be no obstacle for the dog, and kept going, trying to keep an eye out for somewhere – anywhere – to hide in. But there was no time and the dog was right behind him. He could feel the dog's breath on the back of his legs, even through his jeans, and hear the laboured snorts of the dog's flattened nose.

Then, suddenly, a yelp of surprised pain.

Tintin risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that the lead that was trailing from the dog's collar had snagged on a ragged branch. It had jolted the dog to a stop. Brutus lay on his back, blinking and seeing stars. He slowly staggered to his feet and shook himself before giving Tintin a furiously suspicious look.

"Ha!" Tintin cried. "Saved!"

_Thud! _

Saved, yes, but not looking where he was going: he had run headfirst into a tree. Winded, he staggered to his feet and held onto the offending tree for balance while his head swam. The dog started to bark again; heavy, loud shouts of annoyance that would bring anyone nearby straight to them. Tintin thought furiously. If he ran now, they would just let the dog go again and he'd be caught at once. He still had no idea where he was or if he was anywhere near a road or even the edge of their property.

But if he went _back…? _

**x**

It was Max who reached Brutus first. Running flat out, he could see the dog bouncing around furiously, growling and barking. The dog, he thought, was caught on something. Probably a tree or a branch. Something had stopped it, and he doubted it was some kid. Brutus was trained well, as Gus had insisted. He slowed down as he neared the dog. "Brutus!" he called. "Good boy! Down, Brutus, down!" He stepped over a trailing fallen branch… which snapped up at once, tangling at his feet. He went down heavily, landing on his right hand. The gun shot out of his grip and landed a short distance away. Before he could reach for it, Tintin darted out from behind the tree and picked it up.

He levelled it at Max's face. "Hands up," he said in a calm voice. He was flushed from exertion, but his eyes were lit by a strange combination of triumph and justice mixed with righteous anger. As Gus broke through the tree line behind Max, Tintin gestured with the gun. "Stop or I'll shoot him."

Gus stopped at once, his hands automatically rising above his head.

"Get up," Tintin ordered Max. "We're going back to the house."

Max shot a confused look at Gus, who looked equally baffled. This was strange: usually prisoners escaped and didn't want to go back to where they were held. Tintin saw the look on their faces and smiled brightly. "We're going to find a nice place to sit down and chat before the police come," he explained. "And then you're going to give me my wallet and the piece of parchment you stole from me. Now get off your knees and start walking."

Max shot a furious look at Gus. "You had to let the dog go," he muttered.

"Shut up," Tintin said at once. They walked for about fifteen minutes before Gus dared to answer.

"What about Nestor?" he asked as quietly as he could.

"He'll have bolted, the fool," came the soft reply.

"Don't talk," Tintin warned them. "You can still walk if I shoot you in the arm. Remember that!"

**x**

Far behind them, straining at the branch that held him, Brutus continued to lunge. The tree shook from the force of him, and the winter season had made the branches skeletal and weak. With one final _charge _for freedom, the branch snapped and Brutus was free! Free! He capered for a second before stopping short, his little doggy brain working furiously (which, for a Boxer, wasn't that fast at all. They were good at what they did and they had a knack for hunting, but beyond that they were easily confused).

He was hungry, and there was a person somewhere around here that smelled odd. He wanted to smell that person. He was sure he detected the hint of another male dog, and he was very interested by that. And he could smell his primary care-giver; Tall Human Male. Tall Human Male sometimes rewarded him with chicken. So… if he… could… catch? Yes, catch… the odd-smelling person, he might get chicken.

It was perfect dog-logic.

He took off after Tall Human Male and the odd-smelling person, and found them quite quickly.

**x**

Tintin turned around when the dog started to bark again. He tried to keep an eye on both the men and the trail behind him, but it was hard. Judging by the thunderous noise from the brush, the dog was free and coming at them. He needed to figure out where…

_There! _

Brutus appeared at a run from behind a tree, his slobbery jowls ballooning back from the speed of his run and his eyes wide and crazy looking. It was almost comical, if he hadn't been heading straight for Tintin. Brutus gathered his strength and jumped – Boxers had a trick they used when their prey was still on its feet: they body-slammed into whatever they were chasing and, as it staggered or went down, they would swing their front paws mightily, punching the creature or person viciously. It was how they had gotten their name and reputation as fighters.

"Holy crap!" The swear word burst out of Tintin. He unfroze when the dog was almost in the air, dropping to his knees and curling up. The dog, his expressive face now surprised at the fact that his prey had disappeared, sailed over Tintin and body-slammed into Max instead, who had been trying to go for the gun. Man and dog went down, taking Gus with them.

Tintin uncurled and waved the gun in their general direction. He wasn't too sure what had just happened, but he had a feeling he was extremely lucky. "Hold the dog!" he said quickly. "Hold him, or I swear I'll shoot you."

Gus reached out and grabbed the dog's collar.

"Get him Brutus," Max hissed. The dog's head came back up and he started to growl, a low rumble that shook his entire body.

"Don't make me kill the dog," Tintin said, his face grim. "I swear, if you make me kill that dog I'll kill you too."

"You wouldn't," Max said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"Try me," Tintin said flatly. His green eyes glittered coldly. "I'm a real dog person, if you know what I mean. I hate cruelty to dogs and I've never hurt a one before in my life. If you make me kill one now, you'll pay for it."

"Max?" Gus hissed.

"Hold the dog," Max snapped.

"Good boy, Brutus, calm down. Calm down!"

"On your feet," Tintin ordered. "Back to the house. _Now!_ Remember: I'd prefer to shoot you before the dog, so don't try anything stupid."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm not going to justify Tintin using the word 'crap' when faced with a charging Boxer. In fact, anyone that's been faced with a charging Boxer knows that 'crap' is probably a very slight understatement to what you feel when you see an insane-looking dog of that size hurtling straight towards you.


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

* * *

Nestor watched from the window. He was nervous. He didn't know what was going on but he knew something was very badly wrong. For a start, why would his masters care about whether or not the burglar had phoned the police? Sure that was the whole point of it? If someone breaks in, you call the police and make sure they were arrested. But Master Maxwell had been angry after the boy had run away, because he _didn't _want the police involved. And why, if he had just broken into someone's house, would the burglar call the police? That didn't make sense either.

It must have been very complicated, Nestor figured. He simply didn't have all the facts at the moment, but one thing was clear: a butler has a job to do and he must do it. And part of that job was complete loyalty to his employers. It was a code of silence, and it existed for all butlers everywhere. They were silent creatures who watched and served, but never judged and maybe, just maybe, when they were older and facing retirement some of the things they had seen were enough to extort a very large pay-day from their employers. Nestor had put his time in with the Bird brothers, and he was owed a huge pay-day some time in the future. Blackmail was an ugly word: butlers were simply paid for their silence.

He chewed at his nails and worried silently. He could now hear the sound of Brutus barking again; faintly, but growing louder and louder. Soon is was joined by Master Gus's voice. The man was pleading with the dog to calm down. There was something wrong with his voice though: he sounded genuinely scared now.

They appeared at the edge of the park, coming from the trees like a small party of half-assed explorers. Masters Gus and Max were walking in front. Master Max had his hands in the air while Master Gus held the dog. The boy – the _criminal – _had a gun! He had a gun pointed at Masters Gus and Max!

That made up Nestor's mind for him: a young ruffian had broken in and had a gun. This was dire straits. This was entirely unacceptable: Nestor had spent the whole morning cleaning the first storey of the Hall from top to bottom and bloodstains would ruin the effect. He had to stop this.

He thought furiously, his quick, bird-like eyes darting from figure to figure as he decided what to do. Curiously, it didn't look like the ruffian was bringing the Masters back to the house. They were going around the side, to the expansive garages where… Ah! Of course! He was putting Brutus back in his pen. Nestor did a quick calculation: it would take a good five minutes to put Brutus away; a few minutes to reach the pen and another few minutes to force him in and settle him down. That gave Nestor time to fetch his Old Friend.

No butler should ever be without an Old Friend.

**x**

They were coming. His blood was singing in his ears. He couldn't hear what he was saying but he thought the young ruffian had mentioned the police again. Probably warning Masters Max and Gus not to call them. Yes, that was it: he'd been confused before. The more he thought about it the more he realised that he was wrong, and the young ruffian hadn't tried to call the police. He had tried to call an accomplice. That must be it. And if Master Max felt that the police mustn't be involved, then there must be a good reason for it.

In fact, it was fitting that the Masters duff the little ruffian up a bit and teach him a lesson. These days it was plain sailing in prison for young toughs like that, what with the bleeding-heart liberals claiming that punishment was a violation of criminals' human rights or whatever. Nestor read the _Daily Mail: _he knew what went on in prisons these days, with the criminals being given televisions and games consoles and mobile phones…

No, it was better this way. This would teach him to be a man and warn him off his criminal career much more firmly than putting him in a cosy jail cell and catering to his every whim.

_Here they come! Keep cool, Nestor. Keep cool._

He hefted his Old Friend in his hands. He liked the weight of the cricket bat. It was wooden, not like these modern, wimpy, light-weight modern ones. It was a solid bit of sporting equipment designed for heavy use.

He pressed his body to the wall, and leaned over so he could still peer out at them. The ruffian was marching his masters this way. A few seconds later his masters passed under the window, their heads bobbing just above the window sill. He took a deep breath and waited…

_Now!_

A ginger-blond head appeared and Nestor sprung out from his hiding place and brought the bat down _hard. _It cracked the ruffian on the head and he dropped the gun at once. Master Max gave a delighted shout but the ruffian was still on his feet! He was reeling just under the window so Nestor raised the bat again. Just as it had started back down, with more force this time to make sure the blow would knock the ruffian out, Master Max lunged forward and grabbed the boy by the throat. This time, the blow landed on Master Max's head and he went down at once. Nestor dropped his Old Friend, aghast at what had happened.

**x**

Gasping for breath, Tintin rolled out from under the heavy weight of Max Bird. His head ached and he had no idea why. He looked around, bleary-eyed, and realised he was too late to stop one of the thugs from grabbing the dropped gun. It was the taller of the two men, and he levelled it at Tintin. "Got you this time," he said with an evil grin. He waved the gun at the window and Tintin glanced up and realised that the butler was there. It must have been he who had attacked him, probably with the cricket bat that had landed in the shrubbery. "Come out here, Nestor, and bring some strong rope with you. And if we have any duct tape, bring that too."

"Of course, Master Gus," the butler said. He shot a worried look at the other man, who was only now regaining his feet. "I hope Master Max will forgive me for" –

"Don't use my bloody name!" Max cried.

"Oh, give it up," Gus snapped. This had all gone pear-shaped and he wanted it to be over and done with. The sooner Max killed the little snot-nosed brat the better. He grabbed a hold of Tintin's arm and forced the boy in front, digging the gun painfully into the small of his back. "Get in front and start walking. And so help me God, if you make one smart move I'll shoot you where you stand. Don't _you_ test _me _on that!"

Tintin started walking, his mind working furiously. He _had_ to find a way out of here now: they were going to kill him he was sure of it, and it would be _very _unpleasant. His eyes took in his surroundings. They were near the corner of the house. Once they turned that corner, they would be at the front of the house. Once he was inside that house, he wouldn't come out alive again. But the ground here was too open: if he ran for it he wouldn't have any cover and he'd be relying on the man named Gus to be a bad shot at almost point-blank range. He had to figure something out. This _couldn't _be the end, not after everything that had happened…

A blur of white and brown shot out of a bush. _Another dog? _Tintin thought as he turned in slow motion, his eyes widening, to watch it.

_Snowy!_

He whooped in delight and dropped to his knees as tenacious little Snowy, covered in mud and grass stains, lunged at Gus Bird and wrapped his terrier jaws around the man's arm. The gun went off and the bullet whizzed over Tintin's head, but Snowy hung on, dragging Gus's arm down as he made his descent. He had a good grip of the man's sleeve, and a fair bit of flesh and bone too, and the surprise and pain made tears spring to Gus's eyes and forced him to his knees.

Tintin sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, and caught the man with a strong punch to the jaw, knocking him back. Before the other man had a chance to collect himself and pick up the gun, Tintin was on him with a quick left hook to the chin followed by a right hook to the face. He felt the man's nose burst under his fist as it broke. The man screamed and fell back, clutching his nose. Blood streamed from under his fingers.

_Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaah! Tintin! _Snowy leaped at Tintin and the boy quickly caught the dog in his arms and accepted the delighted licks.

_You were gone and then I had to find you and there was the things that growled at me and they attacked me and then there was some stuff and my feets hurt and I want to go home to bed now please. Also: food. _All this and more was communicated in the licks. Tintin was a smart kid: he would figure it out quickly and hopefully chicken and sleep would be forthcoming.

"How the hell did you get here?" Tintin asked, cuddling the dog close. Snowy was the most welcome sight he'd seen in _ages._

"_Hands up!" _A voice shouted from behind the corner of the house and Tintin turned at once, instinctively ducking.

"Again?" he asked warily. "What now?"

"_I said put your hands up!" _the voice bawled.

"Is that the Thompsons?" Tintin wondered. "Snowy, who did you bring with you?"

Snowy cocked his head at the sound of his name and hoped that some of those words meant that someone would feed him. Also, he could smell another male dog and that was interesting.

A figure appeared from around the corner: tall and slightly dishevelled and, above all, _familiar. _Tintin put Snowy down and started forward in relief. "Captain!" he cried. "Oh, thank heavens you're here!"

"You bully!" the Captain cried. Tintin stopped short and watched, a feeling of uncertainty rising in the pit of his stomach as the increasingly familiar look of sheer rage covered the Captain's face. "You pirate! You pickled herring! You _bastard!"_

"Captain!" Tintin's eyes widened as the Captain ran forward. He whipped a heavy glass bottle from the pocket of his jacket and raised it over his head.

"Captain!" Tintin cried. He realised he was frozen. He'd seen the Captain angry before, but never _this _angry, and never had Tintin thought that the man's anger would be directed at him.

"Take _that!" _The Captain's hand whipped forward and the bottle went flying, sailing over Tintin's shoulder with unerring accuracy. Tintin turned and saw it smash against Gus Bird's head: the man was on his knees and the gun was in his hand, pointing at Tintin's back. "Shoot a kid when his back's turned? Not on my watch!" the Captain bawled. "You piece of crap! How _very_ dare you!" He turned to Tintin, the anger quickly becoming concern. "Are you all right? By thunder you scared the hell out of me!" Before Tintin could respond, the Captain grabbed him in an almighty bear hug, and held him tightly for a few seconds before letting go. He held Tintin at arms length, his hands on the boy's shoulders as he searched his face. "Did they hurt you? Did they do anything to you?"

"I'm fine," Tintin said. He felt strangely happy now that he knew he wasn't about to get his head bashed in with a bottle: it was nice to have someone this concerned over his well-being. "Thanks for showing up."

"Don't mention it." The Captain's right hand rested lightly against Tintin's cheek for a second before the man regained his usual gruff composure and pulled away. "Well, it had to be done, didn't it? Can't have you going off and getting yourself killed. It would mean a lot of paperwork for me."

"Your concern is touching," Tintin said with a grin. They turned and looked at the two men. Max was sitting up, his back against the wall of the house and his hands still covering his broken nose. He was glaring at them. Gus was now stretched right out and completely out cold. He was lying in a puddle of foul-smelling liquid and shattered glass.

"He'd come round and was going to shoot you," the Captain said, nodding at Gus. "Filthy scumbag. I just saw red. Blistering barnacles, I hope I haven't killed him…"

"I don't think so, he's still breathing. Thanks, Captain."

"Don't worry about it." The Captain clapped him on the back and glanced down at Snowy. "Where did you pop out from?" he asked the dog in surprise.

Snowy wagged his tail politely and went back to sniffing Gus's leg. The strange male dog scent was stronger on this one.

"You didn't bring him with you?" Tintin asked.

"No. He ran off yesterday and I couldn't find him. T'be honest, I was too busy worrying about you to bother about him," the Captain admitted. "He must have followed that van all the way here. Fancy that! It's like a Disney story. Except with a bit more gun play and danger."

The sound of feet crunching on gravel made them turn. The Thompsons appeared from around the corner. Nestor, a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, was sandwiched between them. He was still protesting loudly.

"But I'm telling you," he was saying in a plaintive voice, "I haven't done anything wrong! It was this young scoundrel who broke in and terrorised my masters! He's the real criminal here, detectives."

"He had these on him," Thomson said, ignoring Nestor. He held out his hand and showed them the length of rope and a roll of thick, silver duct tape. "So we've arrested him on suspicion of kidnapping." The Captain's face darkened in anger again, so Tintin stepped in front of him and addressed the two Interpol detectives.

"To be fair," he said quickly, before the Captain could fly off the handle, "he did act in good faith. He's the servant, detectives. He was told that I had broken in and, for all he knew, I could have. He was just doing what he was told to do."

"Your masters are the real criminals," the Captain snapped. "Just look at what they've done to my bottle of brandy, too! It's smashed to pieces. That was Hennessy three-star an' all!"

"And we have a warrant for their arrest," Thompson said. He reached into his inside pocket and stopped, his eyes widening in shock. "My wallet!" he cried.

Tintin sighed. Well, it _had _been going very well so far. Of course there had to be a bump in the road right about now: nothing was ever this easy. "Stolen?" he asked in a long-suffering voice.

"No! Absolutely not!" Thompson's shock changed to utter joy. He pulled out a brown leather wallet attached to a heavy, thick chain. "I sill have it! It must be some sort of miracle!"

"By the way," Tintin asked suddenly, an idea occurring to him, "did you ever find the pickpockets?"

"No, not yet," Thomson said, "but it won't be long now. We got a name for the coat's owner from the Stellar Cleaners. He's called Aristides Silk. We were just about to pull him in for questioning when the Captain called us, and then we got the order to arrest the Bird brothers. So, here we are."

"You got a warrant very quickly," Tintin said with a frown. "Usually it takes a bit of time."

"Yes, but you know what child services are like when they get involved," Thompson said, rolling his eyes.

"Child services?" Tintin groaned and covered his face.

"Er, yeah," the Captain said guiltily. "I couldn't keep this quiet. Sorry, lad. I had to tell Emilie. She showed up this morning and you were missing and I'd already called the police… In fact, she's waiting around the front. She insisted on coming."

"Oh, Captain, I just want to go home to bed!" Tintin complained.

"I know. Sorry. But I honestly didn't know what else to do." The Captain winced at him. "And you may not be able to go home…"

Tintin shot him a look. The Captain held his hands up in defence. "We're just going to have to talk to her," he said quickly. "You never know: she might want to keep this quiet too!"

Tintin sighed. "I suppose so. No point putting it off, is there? And for heaven's sake, detectives, let the butler go, will you? He hasn't done anything wrong."

"Hmph. I suppose," Thomson conceded sulkily. "He'll still have to come down to the station, though, and make a statement."

"It's better than getting arrested," the Captain said with a shrug. "And I want that bottle of Henny replaced! Hop to it, man!"

"Er, of course, sir." Nestor held still while the handcuffs were taken off. Things were even more confusing now, but he recognised an order when he heard it, and right now he was aching to get back to following orders and leaving the difficult thinking up to others. He made a deep bow and hurried away. Tintin and the Captain followed him at a slower pace while the detectives stayed behind to formally arrest the Bird brothers.

"How did you know where I was?" Tintin asked as they walked. "It didn't seem like you understood me, when I phoned you."

"I didn't," the Captain admitted. "I was going out of my mind before you rang. I even phoned my idiot brother, Frankie, asking him for help but he didn't want to hear any of it. Huh!" he said, spitting in disgust. "He can go and swing. I hope he understand what it feels like one day, and when that happens he can whistle for all I care. I shan't be helping _him!"_

Tintin rolled his eyes and grinned. Nobody could hold a grudge like Captain Haddock, he was learning.

"Anyway, I was still puzzling over your call when the hospital phoned and said that the little-bird-man had woken up. You remember." The Captain waved his hand vaguely. "The bloke that got shot right outside your flat."

"He's alive?" Tintin asked hopefully.

"Oh, aye, he is. The doctors done a great job on him. He's alive and well _and_ speaking, and he was able to name his attackers as the Bird brothers of Marlinspike Hall. It was only when I heard the name 'Marlinspike' that I realised what you were trying to say. Well, there was no time to lose, was there? I called the two idiots and Emilie and we got over here straight away."

"Well done, Captain!"

"Oh, shucks!" The Captain blushed and looked bashful. "Some of your intelligence was bound to rub off eventually, eh?"

"Just like your swearing is starting to rub off on me."

"From this point on, I shall make a concentrated effort to not swear ever again," the Captain said solemnly.

"What about the drinking?" Tintin asked.

"Choose your battles, son. That's what my old dad used to say." The Captain slung his arm around Tintin's shoulder companionably. "Ready to face the music?"

They turned the corner and there was Emilie. She was leaning against her car, her arms folded across her chest and her foot tapping against the ground. Her mouth was a tight, grim line. She looked up as they appeared and glared at them.

"Oooh, she looks a bit annoyed," the Captain said worriedly.

"Maybe we can just run for it?" Tintin offered.

"Good idea. I'll start the car while you push her over. We can hop it while she's off-balance."

They stopped short when, from behind them, there came the sounds of a fight. There were two or three heavy blows and a voice cried out in surprise and pain. Forgetting about Emilie, they turned around and ran back the way they came.

"Hey!" she cried. "Get back here!"

They ignored her and kept going. "We shouldn't have left them alone!" Tintin cried. "Those two are dangerous!"

Thompson and Thomson were on the ground. One was on his knees, fighting with what looked to be his hat, while the other was slowly getting up. His hat was also pulled down around his face, covering his eyes.

"Look!" the Captain said. "One's going around the corner."

"Max!" Tintin declared. "He's the most dangerous one!" He picked up speed and tore after the criminal. Just was he reached the corner and was about to step out, a car roared into life and came towards him at speed. As it neared, the tyres squealed and Tintin realised that Max had swerved in an attempt to run him over.

"Whoops!" the Captain shouted. He hooked his arm around Tintin's waist and yanked him backwards. The car quickly righted itself and zoomed off, missing Tintin by bare inches.

"That bastard!" Tintin cried.

"Language," the Captain said primly.

"Sorry, Captain, but ooooh! that really boils my blood!"

"Settle down," the Captain hissed. "Here's Emilie." They both turned back to her and did their best to look like responsible, respectable individuals. She reached the detectives and looked at them in despair before grabbing the brim of Thomson's hat and starting to tug at it. "Feel free to help," she said witheringly.

"Of course!" Tintin replied brightly. He caught a hold of Thompson's waist and nodded at the Captain. "Pull!"

"Right-o!" The Captain grabbed the brim of Thompson's hat and pulled hard. The hat popped off the man's head and the Captain staggered backwards a few steps. At that precise moment Nestor chose to make his reappearance, laden down with a tray filled with a wide array of glass bottles. "I brought you a selection of _aaargh!"_

The Captain hit the tray and both men went down in a shower of tinkling, smashing glass and expensive booze. The Captain looked around in dismay. "I don't believe it!" he squeaked. "Bloody, sodding hell! Oh, for _fu" –_

"Language," Tintin said quickly.

– "heaven's sake," the Captain finished weakly.

Emilie shook her head and yanked Thomson's hat off his head with one vicious tug. "I'm going back to the city," she said, trying to dampen down her annoyance. "I'm going to get something to eat and then I'm going to show up at your house, Captain. I suggest you two use the time to get your stories straight." She shook her head at them in barely concealed irritation and thrust the hat into Thomson's hands. "Your hat, sir." With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

"Thanks, miss," Thomson said happily. He put his hat back on his head and got off his knees.

"What's bitten her?" the Captain asked, bemused.

"Oh, it was probably the whole kidnapping thing and then that near miss with the car," Tintin replied with a shrug. "Sometimes people can be sensitive about stuff like that."

"Yeah, I suppose. Oh well, never mind that now: we've got a few hours reprieve at least."

Thompson and Thomson paused in the act of hauling a handcuffed Gus Bird to his feet. "Few hours reprieve? Well, if you're not too tired you can always come with us. As soon as we get this little lamb back to headquarters we're going to pick up Aristides Silk," Thomson said.

"Great!" Tintin brightened up at once. "Do you mind if I talk to your prisoner?" He gestured to Max Bird hopefully. After all, the Thompsons were still policemen and he was a reporter. It wasn't usual practice to allow a reporter to question the prisoner first.

The Thompsons exchanged a look that went on for a few seconds longer than necessary, as though they were silently communicating with each other. Eventually, Thomson shrugged and Thompson turned to Tintin. "We are just going to stand over there and have a cigarette. Any conversations that may or may not take place are nothing to do with us."

Tintin waited as the two men innocently removed themselves to the grass a short way away. They didn't go too far though: they wanted to hear everything that was said. "Alright then," Tintin said, eyeing Gus. "I think you owe me an explanation."

"Damn right!" said the Captain.

"I'm not saying anything until I see my solicitor," Gus replied shortly.

"You can't weasel your way out of this," Tintin said, amused by the man's brazen attitude. "You left two victims alive, and both can positively identify you."

"Two?" Gus asked, his forehead creasing in a frown.

"You didn't know? The man you shot is alive. He woke up and identified you and your brother as his shooters," Tintin said.

Gus's face went grey. "Barnaby's alive?" he asked. He looked more than shocked: for a second Tintin thought the man would get sick right there and then. "Oh God," he said faintly.

Tintin rolled his eyes and cursed the fact that he was, at heart, a nice person. "I know it's old hat, but if you tell the truth they _do _go easier on you."

"Fine," he said. "Right. Fine. I mean… Well, it all started a few years ago. We were doing a house clearance in Bristol, in England. It was some old dock-rat – and old man with no family other than a son that didn't give a damn. It was the son who got us in. He gave us some money and told us to clear the house. He didn't care what we did with the stuff. Most of it was junk… but there was a ship up in that attic. It was the model of the _Unicorn, _the ship Sir Francis Haddock lost.

"We knew the story, of course, and the legend of the treasure. But that's just children's stories. Or so we thought." He shook his head. "I don't know why, but Max loved that ship. He kept it on a shelf behind the register in the shop. Our first shop, I mean. That's how I broke it: I was at the till and I knocked it off its damn shelf. God, how I wish I hadn't. That's how we found the scroll, you see, and ever since then Max has been completely obsessed with the _Unicorn._

"He was so obsessed, that when this house came up for sale he bought it and moved in. He said that being in the same place where Sir Francis had lived rejuvenated him. He said it helped him think like Sir Francis, and that once he was thinking like the man he'd be able to figure out the puzzle he'd left behind. God, it was just so… so _morbid. _The whole thing consumed him. He searched _everywhere _for the other two models. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he didn't stop…

"In the end, I think he realised that one man couldn't search alone, so he hired people – Barnaby was one of them – to search too. That was five years ago. Now… well, up until recently Barnaby was the only one left. The others had all realised that it was fruitless, and moved on. Only Barnaby stayed. He and Max were close, and once Barnaby knew the full reason why Max wanted the other two models, well, he was hooked too. I mean _treasure. _It's everyone's dream! The whole thing just sort of… sucked people in. It's more like the curse of the _Unicorn…" _He shook his head sadly and continued.

"Barnaby got greedy though. He should have known Max wouldn't let him get away with it… Anyway, Barnaby finally spotted the second ship at some… I don't know, some flea market in the Christmas market. He lost it to you, Tintin, but he was thorough: within an hour he knew where you lived and he'd stolen the ship."

"But the parchment was gone," Tintin said.

"Exactly. Max sent Barnaby back to find it, but he couldn't. He ransacked the place, or so he said" –

"He did," Tintin said ruefully. "It took ages to clean up afterwards."

"Yeah, well, he was good at what he did," Gus replied without a trace of apology. "But he came back without the scroll again and Max had a fit. He fired Barnaby on the spot and Barnaby started in with the blackmail. He threatened to go to you and confess, and come clean about the whole story. He said once the story of the treasure – with the added detail of Sir Francis's clues to its whereabouts – went public we'd never find it. Everyone else would start searching for it and we'd lose out to some fool with a better boat, or some idiot savant working for one of the universities who'd be able to crack the code quicker than us.

"I never really believed he'd do it – Barnaby, I mean. I _know_ Max could kill someone. But we followed Barnaby and there he was: at your place, talking to you, just like he'd threatened us. I was driving, and before I knew it Max was shooting. It wasn't planned. Or if it was, I didn't know about it. I just thought we were going to keep an eye on him…" He rubbed his eyes with his hands and sighed. "It's all gone a bit Pete Tong, hasn't it?"

"Wrong ain't the word, shipmate," the Captain replied. "You're up a certain creek and we're fresh out of paddles for you. Blistering barnacles, what a mess!"

"What about Mr Sakharine?" Tintin asked.

"Who's that?" Gus replied, confused.

"There was another man, who collected model ships, who was attacked" –

"Oh, _him. _Yes, that was Barnaby again. He told us that there was another man also bidding for your model of the _Unicorn, _and Max figured out that he was a collector too. We thought he was looking for the treasure, but when we got his ship the scroll was intact."

"Well, that explains the three parchments," Tintin said slowly, "but why kidnap me?"

"We told you: to get our parchments back."

"But I don't _have _your parchments," Tintin pointed out. "I only ever had one: the one from my ship. What on earth would make you think that I had your parchments?"

"We had them, then we didn't," Gus confessed. "I have no idea what happened to them. I came home one day and Max had torn the house apart searching for them. He was in a rage about it: he swore someone must have stolen them from him. When he calmed down he swore that the only person clever enough to have taken them _and _figured out all the pieces of the puzzle was you. So he had you kidnapped."

It was a subtle change, but Tintin noted Gus was starting to put all the blame on his brother. Before they had been equals, but now everything was becoming Max's idea; Max's obsession. The Thompsons would have no trouble interrogating this one: by the time they even got him to an interview room Tintin was sure that the story would become all about Max being firmly in charge and Gus's role reduced to that of an innocent bystander caught up in events beyond his control. In fact, Tintin was willing to lay on a hefty bet that Gus would turn State's Evidence and help send his brother away for a very long time, in return for a much-reduced sentence in a minimum security prison.

"Where did he keep his parchments?" Tintin asked. He needled a bit, nudging Gus in the right direction. "After all, he would never have trusted _you _to keep them, would he?"

"No, of course not: the treasure was Max's obsession. He didn't trust anyone with the clues. Ever. I barely even saw them. He kept them in his wallet at all times, and he always kept his wallet with him."

Tintin shook his head and shot a look at the Captain, who returned it. "You pair of fools," he said at last. "Honestly? So you went to a city that is currently in the middle of a pick-pocketing frenzy; lost your wallet; and assumed some person you'd never even met before had stolen it? Seriously?"

Gus rolled his eyes. "Look, I suggested it to Max and he flipped. He didn't want to think that the scrolls were lost forever, or even destroyed by some mindless, thieving thug who didn't understand what he had. It was false hope, but it was _some _hope."

"You were going to torture me! And you _knew _I hadn't taken your wallet!"

"I would never have tortured you," Gus said quickly.

"No, you would have let your brother do it, wouldn't you? Because the reality of murder and torture is nothing compared to the promise of riches beyond your wildest imagination." Tintin shook his head. "You're pathetic."

"So that's it, then?" the Captain asked. "The treasure's gone?"

"For now, anyway," Tintin replied. "But at least we still have one piece of parchment." He held his hand out to Gus. "Where's the parchment you took from me, when you brought me here?"

"I don't have it," Gus said with a smug grin. "I already told you: Max never trusted anyone with his parchments. He has it in his pocket now."

Tintin didn't bother swearing: there was no point. Unless the Thompsons managed to catch all the pickpockets and recover all the wallets intact, they'd never find Max Bird's two parchments anyway. It was just a pipe dream, now: a distant 'what-if' memory he could use to torture himself with in the years to come: What if we found the parchments? What if we found the treasure? What if we were multi-million-billionaires? With a giant house and a private plane and a room made of strawberry ice-cream? He turned to the Captain. "I need a shower."

"I need a drink," the Captain said. "I can't keep up with all this."

Tintin turned the Captain around as the Thompsons came to claim their prisoner, and led him back to the car. "The only thing we need to know, is that we're not going to find the treasure."

"So we're still poor, then?"

"Yes, Captain. We're still poor."

"Oh, thundering typhoons. Still," he added brightly. "It could be worse."

"How?" Tintin asked. "We're both still poor, we have less than we started with, my house has been broken into twice, I've been kidnapped, you've been annoyed, and we still have to face the social worker."

"Yeah," the Captain agreed, "but it could be raining."

They looked at the clear, bright November sky. "I suppose you're right," Tintin conceded, brightening up. "Come on, let's get out of here."


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

* * *

It was nice to have a shower. It was even nicer to put on fresh clothes and slum around the Captain's flat for the rest of the afternoon, but the third one wasn't really an option. Tintin had just finished lacing up his running shoes when his phone – newly liberated from Marlinspike House – started to ring. He answered it at once, ignoring the Captain's orders to turn it off.

"Tintin here," he said quickly. He mimed to the Captain that it was an important call that he _had _to take, until the man threw his eyes up to heaven and shrugged in defeat.

"_Still up for a jaunt?" _Thomson asked promptly.

"Are you going to arrest that pickpocket?" Tintin asked. Small tendrils of hope tentatively clung to his soul.

"_We're just about to head there now. We can pick you up on the way, if you like?"_

"I'd like that very much. I'm at the Captain's house. Do you have his address?"

"Remember the social worker," the Captain hissed. "Don't make any plans for the rest of the day, I'm warning you!"

"_I know it," _Thomson replied. _"I'll see you in a few minutes." _

"Great, I'll see you then." Tintin hung up. "Sorry Captain," he added meekly, "but I couldn't hear what you were saying."

"Yeah? I'll believe that when I start farting diamonds." The Captain shook his head. "Thundering typhoons, you're one of a kind."

"Thanks!"

"That wasn't a compliment."

"Are you coming with us?" Tintin asked, expertly changing the subject. "The Thompsons are on their way to arrest that pickpocket; Silk I think his name is. There's still a small chance that he has Max Bird's wallet."

"So what if he does?" the Captain asked. "Blistering barnacles, even if, by some small, tiny, _insignificant _miracle, this man has Max Bird's wallet, that doesn't change the fact that Max Bird has your part of the puzzle. So we still couldn't solve it, even if we wanted to. Do you even remember what was written on the parchment?"

Tintin shrugged. "Most of it, I think."

"And the symbols?"

"No, I've forgotten. I knew I should have written it down straight away." Tintin paused, looking annoyed with himself. He shook his head. "I suppose you're right. But I'm still interested in this Silk character. And I'd like to know for sure that the wallet isn't there. It would just annoy me if I don't check."

The Captain rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'm staying here, though. I'll start dinner, or something. Woe betide you if Emilie turns up while you're gone, though."

"She won't, I promise." Tintin flashed him a grin as he tugged his jacket on over his comfortable blue jumper. "Ring me if she does. Just tell her that you ran out of milk and I went out to get some."

"Just go. And hurry back!" the Captain called as the door shut. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, until the urge to swear had passed.

**x**

Mr Aristides Silk lived in a highly respectable part of the city. It was a long, quiet street of three story town-houses that _hadn't_ been split into apartments, which was a miracle in most European cities these days. The residents, too, seemed to be mainly middle- to upper-class, going by the cars parked outside the various houses. There was no car outside Mr Silk's house, but there was a cluster of bright red flowers that hung in a hanging basket beside his front door.

"It's not what I was expecting," Tintin admitted.

"Crime is everywhere," Thomson said as he stepped up to the door and rang the bell. Then he took a step backwards, so that he stood shoulder to shoulder with his colleague. Their stance was the same: heads raised proudly, a small smile on their moustached lips, their hands clasped firmly behind their backs with their walking sticks held firmly in the crook of their left elbows.

They _had _to be related. It was something that genuinely worried Tintin, and kept him up at night puzzling over it. How on earth could two men look and act exactly the same, without being related to each other?

Unless – and Tintin wasn't proud of this theory, but it was the only one he had that could explain it properly – but unless they weren't _born _at all. Perhaps they had been _grown, _in a laboratory by a mad scientist with a penchant for detective fiction?

He cleared his head as the door opened and a pleasant-faced older gentleman regarded them with benign interest.

"Mr Aristides Silk?" Thompson asked.

"Yes," the gentleman said. He looked from Thomson to Thompson, sparing a quick nod to Tintin, who's face could just be seen over their shoulders, and waited.

"I'm from Interpol, Mr Silk," Thompson said. His right hand swung out from behind his back as he flashed his badge. Beside him, Thomson did the same with practised ease. "I have a warrant here" – there was a quick pause as the Thompsons put away their badges and Thomson produced a folded warrant – "that allows me access to these premises to perform a search. We encourage you to remain here, to oversee the search. Any objections you have can be lodged with our headquarters."

"I…" said Mr Silk. He stood back and allowed the Thompsons to enter. He nodded again as Tintin followed the two men in, assuming he too had an official job and a reason to be there. "I don't know what's going on," he said at last. To Tintin, he looked like a genuinely confused older gentleman.

"We have reason to believe that you tried to steal my wallet," Thomson said.

"What proof do you have?" Mr Silk demanded.

"My colleague here chased you, and in irder to facilitate your escape you shed your jacket."

"Oh dear," Mr Silk said. He deflated slightly. "I don't suppose there's any chance that I can talk my way out of this, is there?"

"No, sir, there isn't," Thompson agreed. "You see, your dry cleaners, the Stellar Cleaners, have helped us traced this jacket back to you. It's nice that some places still keep the old traditions alive, isn't it, sir? They take such pride in their skills."

"Yes, they do," Mr Silk said sadly. "Then I can confirm, gentlemen, that it was I who tried to take your wallet, and it was I who lost my coat."

"So you admit you're a thief?" Thomson asked.

"Me? A thief?" Mr Silk looked scandalised by the suggestion. "How dare you! I am not a thief!"

Thomson and Thompson exchanged a look. Tintin went to the coffee table and looked at the papers that were spread out on top of a scrapbook. "Can you explain this?" he asked innocently.

Mr Silk beamed with pride. "I am an artist," he said.

Tintin looked down at the scrapbook. Pasted into it were snippets of information about the pickpocket epidemic in Brussels. Each article was neatly arranged, with the date pencilled in by hand beneath it. Under the nest of papers were what appeared to be two wallets. The one on top was brown leather and had a label stuck to the front that read: _Property of R. Briggs. Stolen on 27/11. _

"Sometimes, I need to have modern art explained to me," Tintin replied politely.

Aristides Silk sagged. "It's a harmless collection," he offered. "I'm not a thief, not at all. But, er, unfortunately I _am _a, a bit of a… well, a kleptomaniac, I suppose you'd call it. I can't explain it! It's something stronger than I am. I just adore wallets. Just think of it, gentlemen! A whole life stored in a small fold of fabric or leather!" He smiled, his face lighting up with an inner mania. He shook his head and continued. "Sometimes, from time to time, I, I see a wallet. And I take it. I don't steal it, not at all. It's not in use when I take it, you see. And I put a label on it and I add it to my collection."

"Collection?" Tintin asked doubtfully. _How many wallets could one man steal? One very clever man. One extremely talented man with the most perfect, respectable disguise? _

"Gentlemen, my collection." Mr Silk went to the door of what Tintin had assumed to be a functional room, like a sitting room or a dining room, and opened it. Inside were row upon row of shelves filled almost to bursting with a huge array of wallets. The letters of the alphabet were stuck to the wooden shelving, showing that the 'collection' had been carefully arranged and ordered. "I'll think you'll find it the largest such collection in Europe. If not the world," he added proudly.

"Probably," Tintin said weakly as he wandered in. "When did you start?"

"I'm sure you'll think it a remarkable achievement when I tell you that this took only three months to achieve."

"Three months?" Tintin looked around. There were loads of wallets here! He couldn't even begin to start counting them! There was just no way that one man could… could… be a crime-wave? Were they even able to call it a crime-wave any more? 'Wave' indicated that many were involved: this was just one lone weirdo working towards no goal bigger than personal admiration. He drifted towards the 'B's and started to flick through them, ignoring Mr Silk's boasts. The Thompsons looked just as flabbergasted as Tintin.

_Never mind, _he thought to himself, _even if Max Bird's wallet isn't here, this'll make a great article. There's bound to be a bunch of crime journals that would love a story as whacky as this! _

**Max Bird**.

The name leaped out at him. He stopped what he was doing and stared at it, waiting for the letters to rearrange themselves into another name, but they didn't. The label stayed as it was: _Property of Max Bird. Stolen on the 25/11. _

He opened it. It was going to be empty. He knew it.

It wasn't.

It contained a €5 note, a €50 note, and two pieces of parchment.

Tintin whooped with delight as he pulled the two pieces of parchment out of the wallet. "Captain Haddock, Red Rackham's treasure is ours!"

"Find what you're looking for?" Thomson asked as Thompson argued morality with Aristides Silk.

"I've got it!" Tintin said excitedly. He waved the parchment at them.

"Is that your phone?" Thomson cocked his head as a mobile phone started to ring.

Tintin pulled his from his pocket: it was his phone ringing, and the screen said it was the Captain calling. "I have to go," Tintin said. He answered the phone and listened to the whispered pleas that came from the other end. The Captain sounded a bit annoyed. "I'm on my way," he insisted, interrupting the flow of hushed words. "I'll bring milk with me. You'll see: she'll never guess."

**x**

"Milk!" Tintin put the milk on the counter and grinned at the Captain and Emilie, who were sitting around the coffee table. On the table was a tray. On the tray was the remains of tea: the teapot; the sugar bowl; and the little milk jug. The milk jug already had milk in it. He plastered on his most innocent expression and took a seat on the couch beside the Captain.

Emilie leaned forward and looked at the milk jug pointedly. "You need to come up with better excuses." She looked up at them, her expression severe. "I know what's going on, gentlemen."

Tintin and the Captain exchanged a worried look. "Look," Tintin said hastily, "it's only because" –

Emilie held up her hand and continued to talk. "It says in the police report that you were kidnapped from Labrador Road. Clearly, there was a mistake and you were taken from here. Yes?"

"Er, actually" – the Captain began.

"Tintin lives here, yes?" Emilie asked quickly. Her pen hovered over the clipboard on her knee.

"Well, about that. Y'see" –

Tintin nudged the Captain hard in the ribs. "Yes," he said smoothly. "It was a mistake: I live here."

Emilie nodded. "Good. Because we don't want another incident where Tintin's name is dragged into the papers, do we? If that happens, people will start to ask questions and not only will your lives be disrupted in the worst possible way, but I'll probably end up losing my job and I really don't like that. I'm getting married soon and I want to be able to pay for my honeymoon."

"Congratulations," Tintin said quickly.

"I hope you're very happy," the Captain said virtuously.

"Thank you. I'll be a lot happier if you two could get your story straight _before _the start of any shenanigans. Look, I know this is going to be hard but you must at least _look _like you're playing by the rules. Officially, you live here, Tintin. Officially, you're in charge, Captain." She snapped the lid back on her pen and carefully arranged her folders and clipboard before she stood up. "This is the _only _chance you get: if anything like this happens again our arrangement will come to a sticky end and neither of you will like it. I will be back again next week. You will know in advance: you will both be here _before _I visit. Understood?"

"Perfectly," Tintin said meekly.

"Aye," the Captain added. "Got it in one."

"Good. And how are you feeling, Tintin?" She turned her gaze on him.

He shrugged. "Fine?"

"Have you been to the hospital yet?"

"Um, no? Should I have gone?" He looked at the Captain, wondering what the problem was.

Emilie closed her eyes tightly and counted to ten under her breath. "The police should have insisted," she said through gritted teeth.

"Why?" the Captain asked, puzzled.

"Because. He was kidnapped," Emilie said, trying to remain patient. "Please, Captain, try and fit a doctor's appointment into his schedule at least!"

"I will," he promised faithfully.

"And make sure he goes to it."

"I…. I'll do my best."

"Any problems I should know about?"

"Nothing," Tintin said quickly.

"Good. Then can I suggest you both stay out of the limelight for the next while? For at least a week," she added cynically. "Try keeping your heads down and not attracting trouble. Perhaps a holiday?" She looked hopefully from one to the other. "Somewhere quiet, with absolutely no adventures or danger anywhere near it."

"The countryside?" Tintin suggested.

"The sea?" the Captain offered.

"I was thinking more like a padded room, but either of those would be good." She held out her hand and the Captain stood up and shook it at once. "Be discrete, gentlemen," she added over her shoulder as she opened the front door. "And if you cannot be discrete, try living by the rules instead of breaking them."


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

* * *

Saturday morning dawned dark and overcast. Angry grey clouds covered Brussels, threatening snow. The remnants of the Indian summer were long gone and winter was joyfully making its mark. Thick frost had settled on the cars parked along the road, the glass crackling with intricate loops and whorls, while the pavements and roads had started to form small patches of ice that caught the unwary off-balance.

For the most part, Tintin and the Captain spent the day at home – their official home at least. It was a good day to spend indoors: there was a roaring fire in the grate and the whole flat was toasty and warm compared to the inclement weather outside. Just after lunchtime, though, Tintin received a phone call. They were watching repeats of Playskool on BBC Europe and pretending to be oak trees growing from tiny acorns (much to Snowy's bewilderment) when the phone rang.

"Ignore it," the Captain said promptly. He was crouched down with his arms above his head, hands clasped, like the bud of a sprouting plant. Tintin stood up with a groan and reached for his phone.

"I can't," he said. "It might be something important."

"Fat chance. It's probably a telemarketer or someone with really bad news."

"No, it's Thompson." Tintin pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear. "Tell me something good," he said promptly.

_"We've arrested Max Bird,"_ Thompson replied just as quickly. _"How's that for good?"_

"Brilliant!" Tintin cried. "That's brilliant! How did you manage it?"

_"He was picked up by airport security, trying to leave the country. We've got him now: he'll be in jail by tonight."_

"Hey, I know this probably goes against a load of rules, but is there any chance you could check his wallet for" –

"_Three brothers joyned. Three Unicorns in company sailing in the noonday Sunne will speak," _Thompson began.

"That's it!" Tintin said excitedly. He shot a thumbs up to the Captain, who continued to grow into a mighty tree. "Any chance I can" –

_"Get it back? I don't see why not. We'll drop it over to you later, when we're back in the city. Until then, I still have some business to settle with this troublesome antique dealer."_

**x**

Thompson hung up. He and Thomson were in a small grey room in the bowels of the airport. The muted roar of planes could barely be heard from here. Max Bird sat forlornly on a hard chair, his wrists shackled to the bare table. Thomson was standing staring at him, completely still and silent. It was unnerving the prisoner, who cast wary glances between the two detectives.

Thompson approached. He handed his hat and cane to his partner and started to carefully unbutton the sleeves of his starched, white dress shirt. He rolled his sleeves up and considered Max Bird, who shrank away slightly, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Well now," Thompson said softly. His hands snapped out as he seized Max's hat by the brim. With a quick tug, he yanked it down so that it covered the man's eyes. Thomson eyed it critically.

"Well done," he said at last.

"It's a good look," Thompson agreed. He unrolled his sleeves and accepted his articles back from his partner. "It suits him."

"You pair of bastards," Max said morosely.

**x**

Tintin stared at the three pieces of parchment. They all had the same verse and the same three little sketches of what looked to be roughly-drawn unicorns, and none of them made any sense. The only thing they differed on was the little symbols down at the bottom, but they weren't any code that Tintin knew of. He'd even done a quick search on Google, but that hadn't been any help either. He knew a handful people – academics mainly – that worked with codes and languages in various universities, and if he couldn't come up with the solution himself his Plan B was to take photographs of the code and send it to one or two of them, and see if they could crack it.

He wasn't giving up though. Not by a long shot. At the moment, he was sitting cross-legged on the couch with the parchments balanced on a cushion that was laid across his knees. The Captain was over by the stove, in the kitchen part of the front room, making a big, greasy fry-up for their dinner. The bacon was sizzling in the pan while the sausages cooked in the grill, and Snowy was waiting patiently for scraps.

"I hate it when the dog does that," the Captain said suddenly. Tintin looked up. Snowy was sitting perfectly, with his ears to attention, staring at the Captain. The Captain was eyeing the dog while he flipped the rashers. "I mean, what does he want?"

"I think it's obvious what he wants," Tintin murmured.

"Well he can't have any. You hear me, dog? You can't have any!"

Snowy wagged his tail politely.

"Go on, Snowy, it's not cooked yet."

Snowy cocked his head and continued to wag his tail.

"It's his eyes," the Captain decided. "He looks like an orphan or something. I can just imagine him holding up a little bowl and saying; 'Please sir, can I have some more?'"

Tintin blew out a noisy sigh and frowned at the parchments. He was missing something: he knew he was. There was something staring him in the face and he just couldn't see it.

"Oh, go on then." The Captain cut a bit of black pudding off the roll and tossed it down to Snowy, who snatched it out of the air with a smug look. The Captain glanced over at Tintin. "You're wasting your time," he warned. "Do you fancy an egg?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you take them? Runny in the middle?"

"Yeah." Tintin pushed the cushion away and, making sure the parchments were held securely, he stretched out and rolled onto his stomach. Propping his hands against the arm of the couch, he stared at the parchments again.

"I don't know why you're bothering," the Captain continued.

"Yeah."

"Blistering barnacles, lad, give it up! There's no treasure. It's a good story, but that's all it is."

"Yeah."

"Aliens already stole the treasure."

"Yeah. – Wait, what did you say?" Tintin blinked and looked around.

The Captain shook his head. "Give it up," he repeated as he scooped the rashers on to plates and started on the eggs. "There's no point to it. And I'm not wasting any more time on this thing. I'm not racking my brains trying to figure out what some old drunk fool who lived centuries ago was saying with his squiggly lines and bits of rhymes. Thundering typhoons, there's better ways to spend a Saturday night, surely? And besides, what are the chances that one of us could possibly decipher that thing?"

"I've got it," Tintin said calmly.

"Exactly: a million to one. We might as well play the lottery instead. We've more chances of winning that than" –

"I've just figured it out." Tintin carefully raised himself until he was kneeling on the couch.

The Captain stopped and stared at him. "What?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's so simple," Tintin said. "I can't believe it took me this long to get it!"

"You're kidding!" The Captain tossed the spatula aside and hurried over. "What is it?"

"Look!" Tintin said, his excitement rising. "The parchment is really thin! See what happens when you put it in front of a light source!"

Beside the couch, on a wooden end-table, was a cheap lamp that came straight out of Ikea. Tintin tilted the shade so that the bulb shone a little brighter, stacked the parchments one on top of the other, and held them up to the light. Slowly, the Captain realised that the little lines and squiggles of code had actually come together to form a series of numbers and letters. But most importantly of all, they were numbers and letters that could be _read. _

"I don't know what it means yet," Tintin said, "but I'll find out."

"They're coordinates," the Captain said firmly. Tintin looked up at him in surprise. "They are," the man insisted. "It's latitude and longitude. Look: the 'N' stands for 'North' and the 'W' stands for 'West'. He's saying the treasure is located at 20 37 42 North; 70 52 15 West. They're navigation coordinates."

Tintin's mouth slowly opened to a round 'O' of surprise. It took a few seconds for his brain to sort through everything, but when it did he jumped up with a whoop of delight and wrapped his arms around the Captain's neck. "But that means we know where _The Unicorn _sank!" he cried. "Captain, he's telling us where the treasure is!"

"This can't be happening," the Captain said weakly. "There's no way we've just found treasure. Is there?"

"I think we have!" Tintin said. He was jumping around the place with Snowy, who had no idea what was going on but was more than willing to join in any vigorous celebration.

The Captain's legs appeared to go from under him as he sat on the couch with a _flump! _"Buried treasure!" he said. "Buried treasure! Quick!" He jumped back up. "We should do the lottery too!"

"Never mind that!" Tintin said. "What about the treasure? When can we go and get it?"

The Captain pushed by him to rescue the eggs from the frying pan. They were slightly burned, but still good enough to eat. In fact, he could probably wrangle a fried slice from the oil that was left. "Let me see," he said thoughtfully. "Well, first of all we need a ship – bloody shame the _Karaboudjan _is already sold – but I suppose I can get one from somewhere… Maybe even the _Sirius, _if Chester doesn't mind… We'll have to take on a crew – but I think I can get that sorted pretty quick. Diving suits, various bits of equipment… hum-hum-hum…" He stood, one egg draped over the spatula as he paused and thought carefully about it. "About a month," he declared. "We can probably get under-way in the first or second week of January."

"Hurray!" Tintin threw his hands up in the air and knocked the fried egg off the spatula. It landed on the floor where it was quickly devoured by Snowy.

"That was yours," the Captain said viciously. His slice of fried bread faded into the distance as he cracked the last egg into the frying pan. "And you can sort your own ships out in future."

"Never mind, Captain," Tintin said cheerfully. "In two months time Red Rackham's treasure will be ours, and you can have an army of chefs to cook as many eggs as you like!"

**TO BE CONTINUED.**

* * *

**Author's Note:** just not to be continued this side of Christmas, I'm afraid. Sorry. Also, I was really tempted to put this scene in at the end:

Tintin turned to you and grinned. "But of course," he said, "it won't be easy, and no doubt we'll have our fair share of adventures on our quest to find the treasure. You can read about them in _Red Rackham's Treasure!"_

"Who the bloody hell are you talking to?" the Captain asked. "Why are you staring at that wall?"

I'll be concentrating on _Valkyrie_ from this point on, and keep watching the new stories for a brand spanking new Hallowe'en story, which starts on the 29th of October and will be updated every day until the 1st of November (don't worry, it's already written and waiting to go up).

As ever, feel free to leave feedback or a review for other readers.


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